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CLVT-CK- A^ f- i C 1\JZ- J C'V'i ■ 



THE WORKS 



OF 



ROBERT BURNS: 



WITH 



AN ACCOUNT OF HIS LIFE, 



AND 



^xiiitimix on Miu ^Bxiiixi^u, 

TO WHICH ARE PREFIXED, . 

SOME OBSERVATIONS ON THE CHARACTER AND CONDITION 
OF THE SCOTTISH PEASANTRY. 



BY JAMES CURRIE, M. D. 



ADDITIONAL POEMS 



EXTRACTED FROM THE LATE EDITION EDITED 
BY ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. 



CRISSY & MARKLEY', No. 4. MINOR STREET. 

1850. 



Yu^-::. 



p. 



a ,. 



BlBSBAlMl^Am iS^M^(OM 



THE AUTHOR. 



Robert Biirns was born on the 29th day of f 
January, 1759, in a small house about two 
piilea from the town of Ayr in Scotland. The 
%mily name, wJiich the poet modernized mto 
Bnriis^ was originally Burnes or Bumess. His 
father, William, appears to have been early 
inured to poverty and hardships, which he 
bore with pious resignation, and endeavoured 
to alleviate by industry and economy. After 
various attempts to gain a livelihood, he took 
a lease of seven acres of land, with a view of 
commencing nurseryman and public gardener ; 
and having built a house upon it with his own 
hands (an instance of patient ingenuity by rio 
means uncommon among his countrymen in 
inimble hfe,) he married, December 1757, 
Agnes Brown.* The fii-st fruit of liis marriage 
was Robert, the subject of the present sketch. 

In his sixth year, Robert was sent to a 
school, where he made considerable proficiency 
in reading and writing, and where he dis- 
covered an inclination for books not very com- 
mon at so early an age. About the age of 
thirteen or fourteen, he was sent to the pjirish 
school of Dalrvmple, where he increased liis 
acquaintance with English Grammar, and 
gained some knowledge of the French. Latin 
was also recommended to him ; but he did not 
make any great progress in it. 

The far greater part of his time, however, 
was employed on his father's farm, which, in 
ppite of much industry, became so unproduc- 
tive as to involve the family hi great distress. 
His father having taken another farm, the 
speculation was yet more fatal, and involved 
iiis affairs in complete ruin. He died, Feb. 13, 
17H4, leaving behind him the character of a 
good and wise man, and an affectionate father, 
who, under all his misfortunes, struggled to 
procure his children an excellent education; 
and endeavoured, both by precept and example 
to form their minds to religion and virtue. 

• This excellent woman is still living in the family 
o« her son Gilbert. (May, 1813.) 



It was between the fifteenth and sixteenth 
year of his age, that Robert first " committed 
the sin of rhyme." Having formed a boyish 
affection for a female who was his companion 
in the toils of the field, lie composed a song, 
which, however extraordinary from one at his 
ao-e, and in liis circumstances, is far inferior 
to any of his subsequent performances. Ha 
was at this time " an ungainly, awkward 
boy," unacquainted with the world, but who 
occasionally had picked up some notions of 
history, literature, and criticism, from the few 
books within Ms reach. These he informs us, 
were Salmon's and Guthrie's Geographical 
Grammars, the Spectator, Pope's Works, somi9 
plays of Shakspeare, Tull and Dickson on 
Agriculture, the Pantheon, Locke's Essay on 
the Human Understanding, Stackhouse's His- 
tory of the Bible, Justice's British Gardener's 
Directory, Boyle's Lectures, Allan Ramsay^a 
Works, Taylor's Scripture Doctrine of Ori- 
ginal Sin, a select Collection of English 
Songs, and Hervey's Meditations. Of tliitf 
motfey assemblage, it may readily be sup- 
posed, that some would be studied, and some 
read superficially. There is reason to think, 
however, that he perused the works of tha 
poets with such attention as, assisted by his na- 
.turally vigorous capacity, soon directed his 
taste, and" enabled liim to discrimmate ten- 
derness and sublimity from affectation and 
bombast. 

It appears that from the seventeenth to the 
twenty-fourth year of Robert's age, he mado 
no considerable literary improvement. His ac- 
cessions of knowledge, or opportunities of 
reading, could not be frequent, but no exter- 
nal circumstances could prevent the innate 
peculiarites of his character from displaying 
themselves. He was distinguished by a vigor- 
ous imderstandmg, and an untameable spirit. 
His resentments were quick, and, although 
not durable, expressed with a volubility of 
indignation which could not but silence and 
overwhelm his humble and illiterate asso- 
ciates ; while the occasional effusions of his 
muse on temporary subjects, which v -ere hand- 



IV 

ed about in manuscript, raised him to a local 
Bupariority tliat seemed the earnest of a more 
extended fame. His first nioti^'e to compose 
verses, as has been already noticed, was his 
early and warm attachment to the fair sex. 
His favourites were in the humblest walks of 
life ; but during his passion, he elevated them 
to Lauras and Saccharissas. His attacii- 
ments, however, were of the purer kmd, and 
his constant theme tlie happiness of the mar- 
ried slate ; to obtain a suitable provision for 
v/hich, lie engaged in partnership with a flax- 
dresser, lioping, probably, to attain by degrees 
tiie rank of a manufacturer. But this specu- 
lation was attended with very little success, 
and was finally ended by an accidental fire. 

On his father's death he took a farm in con- 
junction with his brother, with the honourable 
view of providing for their large and orphan 
family. But here, too, lie was doomed to be 
unfortunate, although, in his brother Gilbert, 
he had a coadjutor of excellent sense, a man 
of uncommon powers botli of thought and ex- 
pressioji. 

During liis residence on this farm he formed 
a connexion with a young woman, the con- 
sequences of which CDuld not be long con- 
cealed In this dilemma, the hnprudent couple 
agreed to make a legal acknowledgment 
of a private marriage, and projected that she 
should remain with her father, wliile he was 
to go to Jamaica " to push his fortune." This 
proceeding, however romantic it may appear, 
would have rescued the lady's character, ac- 
cording to the laws of Scotland, but it did not 
satisfy her father, who insisted on having all 
the written documents respecting the marriage 
cancelled, and by this unfeeling measure, he 
intended that it should be rendered void. Di- 
vorced now from all he held dear in the world, 
he had no resource but in liis projected voyage 
to Jamaica, which was prevented by one of 
those circumstances that in common cases, 
might pass without observation, but which 
eventually laid the foundation of his future 
fame. For once, his jioverly stood his friend. 
Had he been provided with money to pay for 
his passage to Jamaica, he might have set sail, 
and been forgotten. But he was destitute of 
every necessary for the voyage, and was there- 
fore advised to raise a sum of money by pub- 
lishing his poems in the way of subscription. 
They were accordingly printed at Kilmarnock, 
in the year 1786, in a small volume, which 
was encouraged by subscriptions for about 350 
copies. 

It is hardly possible to express with what 
eager admiration these poems were every 
where received. Old and young, high and 
low, learned and ignorant, "all were alike de- 
lighted. Such transports would naturally find 
their way into the bosom of the author, 
especially wlien he found that, instead of the 
necessitv of flying from his native land, he 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 



was now encouraged to go to Edinburgh 
and superuitend the publication of a second 
edition. 

In the metropolis, he was soon introduced 
into the company and received the homage of 
men of literature, rank, and taste ; and lus ap- 
pearance and behaviour at this time, as they 
exceeded all expectation, heightened and ke]it 
up the curiosity which his works had excited. 
He became the object of uriiversal admiration 
and was feasted, and flattered, as if it had be(!n 
impossible to reward his merit too highly. 
But what contributed principally to extend 
his fame into the sister kingdom, was his 
fortunate introduction to Mr. Mackenzie, who, 
in the 97th paper of the Lounger, recommend- 
ed his poems by judicious specimens, and 
generous and elegant criticism. From this 
time, whether present or absent. Burns and 
his genius were the objects which engrossed 
all attention and all conversation. 

It cannot be surprising if this new scene of 
life, produced efTects on Burns which were 
the source of much of the unhappiness of his 
future life : for while he was admitted into 
the company of men of taste, and virtue, lie 
w?.8 also seduced, by pressing invitations into 
the society of those whose habits are too social 
and inconsiderate. It is to be regretted that he 
had little resolution to withstand those atten- 
tions which flattered his merit, and appeared 
to be the just respect due to a degree of supe- 
riority, of which he could not avoid being con 
scious. Among his superiors in rank and 
merit, his behaviour was in general decorous 
and unassuming; but among his more equal 
or niferior associates, he was himself the source 
of tlie mirth of the evening, and repaid the at 
tention and submission of his hearers by sal- 
lies of wit, which, from one of his birtli and 
education, had all the fascination of wonder. 
His introduction, about the same time, into 
certam convivial clubs of higher rank, was an 
injudicious mark of respect to one who was 
destined to return to the plough, and to tho 
simple and frugal enjoyments of a peasant's 
life. 

During his residence at Edinburgh, his 
finances were considerably improved by the 
new edition of his poems ; and this enabled 
him to visit several other parts of his native 
country. He lefT; Edinburgh, Ma}' 6, 1787, 
and in the course of his journey was hospitably 
received at the houses of many gentlemen of 
worth and learnmg. He afterwards travelled 
into England as far as Carlisle. In the be- 
ginning of Jime he arrived in Ayrshire, after 
an absence of six months, during which he had 
experienced a change of fortune, to which the 
hopes of few men in his situation could have 
aspired. His companion in some of these 
tours was & Mr. Nicol, a man who was en- 
deared to Burns not only by the warmth of 
hi.s friendship, but by a certain congeniality of 



OF THE AUTHOR. 



TOntiment and agreement in habits. Tliis sym- 
patliy, in some other instances, made our po- 
et capriciously Ibnd of companions, wlio, in 
the eyes of men of more regular conduct, were 
iiisuflbrable. 

During the greater part of the winter 1787-8, 
Burns UiTain resided in Edinburgh, and enter- 
ed with jjccuhar relish into its gayetics. But 
as the ■singularities of his manner displayed 
themselves more openly, and as the novelty of 
his appearance wore otf, he became less an ob- 
ject of general attention. He lingered long 
in tliis place, in hopes that some situation 
would have been offered which might place 
him in independence : but as it did not seem 
probable that any thing of that kind would 
occur soon, he began seriously to reflect that 
tours of pleasure and praise woidd not pro- 
vide for the wants of a family. Influenced by 
these considerations he quitted Edinburgh in 
the month of February, 1788. Finding him- 
fcelf master of nearly 500/. from the sale of his 

Eoems, he took tiie farm of EUisland, near 
>umfries, and stocked it with part of this mo- 
ney, besides generously advancing 200/. to 
his brother Gilbert, who was struggling with 
Difficulties. He was now also legally united 
to Mrs. Burns, who joined him with their cliil- 
dren about the end of this year. 

Quitting now speculations for more active 
pursuits, he rebuilt the dwelling-house on his 
farm ; and during his engagement in this ob- 
ject, and while the regulations of the farm had 
the charm of novelty, he passed his time in 
more tranquillity than he had lately experi- 
enced. But njifortunately, his old habits were 
rallier interrupted than broken. He was again 
invited into social parties, with the additional 
recommendation of a man who had seen the 
world, and lived with the great ; and again 
partook of those irregularities for which men of 
warm imaginations, and conversation-talents, 
find too many apologies. But a circumstance 
now occurred which tlirew many obstacles in 
Ins way as a farmer. 

Bums very fondly cherished those notions 
of independence, which are dear to the young 
iitnd ingenuous. But he had not matured these 
by reflection ; and he was now to learn, that 
a, little knowledge of the world will overturn 
many such airy fabrics. If we may form any 
judgment, however, from his correspondence, 
[lis expectations were not very extravagant, 
eince he expected only that some of his illus- 
trious patrons would have placed him, on 
whom they bestowed the honours of genius, in 
a situation where his exertions might have 
been uninterrupted by the fatigues of labour, 
and the calls of want. Disappointed in this, 
ho now formed a design of applying for the 
office of exciseman, as a kind of resource in 
case his expectations from the farm should be 
baffled. By the interest of one of his friends 
tliis object was accomplished ; and after the 



usual forms were gone through, he was ap- 
pointed exciseman, or, as it is vulgarly called, 
ganger of the district in which he lived. 

" His farm was now abandoned to his ser- 
vants, while he betook liimself to the duties 
of his new appointment. He might still, in- 
deed, be seen in the spring, directing liia 
plough, a labour in which he excelled, or stri- 
ding with measured steps, along his turned-up 
furrows, and scattcrmg the grain in the earth. 
But his farm no longer occupied the principal 
part of his care or his thoughts. Mounted on 
horseback, he was found pursuing the defaul- 
ters of the revenue, among the hiils and vales 
of Nithsdale." 

About this time (1792,) he was solicited, to 
give his aid to I\Ir. Thomson's Collection of 
Scottish Songs. He wrote, with attention and 
without delay, for this work, all the songs 
which appear in this volume ; to which we 
have added those he contributed to Johnson's 
Musical Museiun. 

Bums also found leisure to form a society 
for purchasing and circulating books among 
the farmers of tlie neighbourhood ; but these, 
however praiseworthy employments, still in- 
terrupted the attention he ought to have be- 
stowed on his farm, which became so unpro- 
ductive that he found it convenient to resign 
it, and, disposing of his stock and crop, re- 
moved to a small house which he had taken 
in Dumfries, a short time previous to his lyric 
engagement with Mr. Thomson. He had now 
received from the Board of Excise, an appoint- 
ment to a new district, the emoluments of 
which amounted to about seventy pounds ster- 
ling per aimum. 

While at Dumfries, his temptations to ir- 
regularity, recurred so frequently as nearly to 
overpower his resolutions, and whicli he ap- 
pears to have formed with a perfect knowledge 
of what is right and prudent. During liis 
quiet moments, however, he was enlarging his 
fame by those admirable compositions he sent 
to Mr. Thomson : and his temporary salhes 
and flashes of unagination, in the merriment of 
the social table, still bespoke a genius of won- 
derful strength and captivations. It has been 
said, indeed, that, extraordinary as his poems 
are, they afl'ord but inadequate proof of the 
powers of their author, or of that acuteness 
of observation, and expression, he displayed 
on common topics in conversation. In the so- 
ciety of persons of taste, he could refrain from 
those indulgences, which, among his more con- 
stant companions, probably formed his chiel 
recommendation. 

The emoluments of his office, which now 
com])oscd his whole fortune, soon apjieared 
insulFicient for the maintenance of his family. 
He did not, mdeed, from the first, expect that 
they could ; but he had hopes of promotion 



VI 

ajid 'r^.«*y probably have attained it, if he 
had not i'ji oiled the favour of the Board of 
Excise, by some conversations on the state of 
public c'.fiUfs, wliich were deemed highly im- 
proper, ai.d were probably reported to the 
Board in a way not calculated to lessen their 
effect. That he sliould liave been deceived by 
the affairs in France during the early periods 
of the revolution, is not surprising ; he only 
cauoht a portion of an enthusiasm which was 
then very general ; but that he should have 
raised his imagination to a warmth beyond 
Jiis fellows, will appear very singular, when 
we consider that he had hitherto distinguish- 
ed iiimseif as a Jacobite, an adherent to the 
house of Stewart. Yet he had uttered opi- 
nions which were thought dangerous ; and in- 
formation being given to the Board, an in- 
quiry was instituted into his conduct, the re- 
sult of which, although rather favourable, was 
not so much as to re-instate him in the good 
opinion of the commissioners. Interest was 
necessary to enable hiin to retam his oflipe ; 
and he was informed that his promotion was 
deferred, and must depend on his future be- 
haviour. 

He is said to have defended himself, on this 
occasion, in a letter addressed to one of the 
Board, with much spirit and skill. He wrote 
another letter to a gentleman, who, hearing 
that he had been dismissed from his situation, 

i)roposed a subscription for him. In tliis last, 
le gives an account of the whole transaction, 
and endeavours to vindicate his loyalty ; he 
also contends for an independence of spirit, 
which he certainly possessed, but which yet 
appears to have partaken of that extravagance 
of sentiment which are fitter to pouit a stanza 
than to conduct a life. 

A passage in this letter is too characteristic 
to be omitted. — "■ Often," says our poet, " in 
blasting anticipation have I hstened to some 
future hackney scribbler, with heavy malice 
of savage stupidity, exultingly asserting that 
Burns, notwithstanding the fanfaronade of in- 
dependence to be found in his works, and 
after having been held up to public view, and 
to pubhc estimation, as a man of some genius, 
yet quite destitute of resources within himself 
to support his borrowed dignity, dwhidled in- 
to a paltry exciseman ; and slunk out the rest 
of his insignificant existence, in the meanest 
of pursuits, and among the lowest of man- 
kind," 

This passage has no doubt often been read 
with sympathy.' That Burns should have em- 
braced the only opportunity in his power to 
provide for his family, can be no topic of 
censure or ridicule, and however incompatible 
with the cultivation of genius the business of 
an exciseman may be, there is nothing of mo- 
ral turpitude or disgrace attached to it. It 
was not his clioice, it was the only help within 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 



his reach : and he laid hold of it. But that ne 
should not have found a patron generous or 
wise enough to place him in a situation at 
least free trom allurements to " the sin that 
so easily beset him ;" is a chcumstanco on 
which tlie admirers of Burns have fo^md it 
painful to dwell. 

Mr. Mackenzie, in the 97th number of the 
Lounger, after mentioning the poet's design 
of going to the West Indies, concludes that 
paper in words to which sufficient attention 
appears not to have been paid : " 1 trust 
means may be found to prevent this resolu- 
tion from taking place ; and that I do my 
country no more than justice, when I suppose 
her ready to stretch out the hand to cherish 
and retain this native poet, whose " wood 
notes wild" possess so much excellence. To 
repair the wrongs of suffering or neglected 
merit ; to call forth genius from the obscurity 
in which it had pined indignant, and place it 
where it may pro/it or deligid the u-orld : — these 
are exertions which give to wealth an enviable 
superiority, to greatness and to patronage a 
laudable pride." 

Although Burns deprecated the reflections 
which might be made on his occupation of 
exciseman, it may be necessary to add, that 
from this humble step, he foresaw all the con- 
tingencies and gradations of promotion up to 
a rank on which it is not usual to look with 
contempt. In a letter dated 1794, he states 
that he is on the list of supervisors ; that in 
two or three years he should be at the head 
of that list, and be appointed, as a mattei of 
course ; but that then a friend might be of 
service in getting him into a par't of the king- 
dom which he would like. A supervisor's in- 
come varies from about 1201. to 200/. a year : 
but the business is " an incessant drudgery, 
and would be nearly a complete bar to every 
species of literary pursuit." He proceeds, 
however, to observe, that the moment he is 
a]}])ointed supervisor he 7night be nominated 
on the Collector's list, " and tliis is always a 
business purely of political patronage. A col- 
lectorship varies from much better than two 
hundred a year to near a thousand. Collec- 
tors also come forward by precedency on the 
hst, and have besides a handsome income, a 
life of complete leisure. A life of hterary lei- 
sure with a decent competence, is the summit 
of my wishes." 

He was doomed, however, to continue in 
his present employment for the remainder ot 
his days, wliich were not many. His consti- 
tution was now rapidly decaying; yet, his 
resolutions of amendment were but feeble. 
His temper became irritable and gloomy, and 
he was even insensible to the kind forgiveness 
and soothing attentions of his affectionate wife. 
In the month of June, 1796, he removed to 
Brnw, about ten miles from Dumfries, to try 



OF THE AUTHOR. 



the effect of sea-bathing; a remedy that at 
first, lie imagined, relieved llie rhemnatic pains 
in liis limbs, with which he had been afflicted 
for some montlis : but this was immediately 
followed by a new attack of fever. When 
brouglit back to his house at Dumfries, on the 
18th of July, he was no longer able to stand 
upriirht. The fever increased, attended with 
delirium and debility, and on the 21st he 
expired, in the thirty-eighth year of liis age. 

lie left a widow and four sons, for whom 
the inhabitants of Dujnfries opened a sub- 
scription, which being extended to England, 
produced a consideral)Ie sum for their imme- 
diate necessities.* This has since been aug- 
mented by tJie profits of the edition of his 
works, printed in four volumes, 8vo. ; to 



* Mrs. Burns continues to live in tlie house in which 
the I*of I (lied : the eldest son, Robert, is at present in the 
Stamp Otlice: the other two are officers in the East In- 
dia (Company's army, William is in Bengal, and James 
in Madras, (May, 1813.) Wallace, the second son, a lad 
ol' great promise died of a consumption. 



which Dr. Currie, of Liverpool, prpfixed a life, 
written with much elegance and taste. 

As to the person of our poet, he is described 
as being nearly five feet ten inches in height, 
and of a form that indicated agility as well as 
strength. His well-raised forehead, shaded 
with black curling hair, expressed uncommon 
capacity. His eyes were large, dark, full of 
ardour and animation. His face wasj well 
formed, and his countenance uncommonly in- 
teresting. His conversation is universally 
allowed to have been uncommonly fascmating, 
and rich in wit, humour, whim, and occa- 
sionally in serious and apposite reflection. 
This excellence, however, proved a lasting 
misforttme to him : for while it procured him 
the friendship of men of character and taste, in 
whoso company liis hmnour was guarded and 
chaste, it had also allurements for the lowest 
of mankind, who know no difference between 
freedom and hcentiousness, and are never so 
completely gratified as when genius conde- 
scends to give a kind of sanction to their 
grossness. He died poor, but not in debt, and 
left behind him a name, the fame of which 
will not soon be eclipsed. 



ON 



THE DEATH OF BURNS. 



BY MR. ROSCOE. 



Rear high thy bleak, majestic hills, 

Thy sheltor'd valleys proudly spread, 
And, Scotia, pour thy thousand rills, 

And wave thy heaths with blossoms red ; 
But, ah ! what poet now shall tread 

Tliy airy heights, thy woodland reign, 
Since he the sweetest bard is dead 

That ever breath'd the soothing strain ' 



As green thy towering pines may grow, 

As clear thy streams may speed along ; 
As bright thy summer suns may glow, 

And wake again thy feathery tlirong ; 
But now, unheeded is the song. 

And dull and lifeless all around. 
For Ills wild harp lies all unstrung, 

And cold tlie hand that wak'd its sound. 



What tho' thy vigorous offspring rise 

In arts and arms thy sons excel ; 
Tho' beauty in thy daughters' eyes, 

And health in every feature dwell ; 
Yet who shall now their praises tell, 

In strains impassion'd, fond, and free. 
Since he no more the song shall swell 

To love, and liberty, and thee ! 



With step-dame eye and frown severe 

His hai)less youth why didst thou view ? 
For all thy joys to him were dear, 

And all his vows to thee were due : 
Nor greater bliss his bosom knew, 

In opening youth's delightful prime. 
Than when thy favouring ear he drew 

To listen to his chanted rhyme. 

Thy lonely wastes and frowning skies 

To him'were all with rapture fraught; 
He heard with joy the tempests rise 

That wak'd him to sublimcr thought; 
And ofl Ihy winding dells he sought, 

Wliere wild dowers pour'd their rath perfume. 
And with sincere devotion brought 

To thee liie summer's earliest bloom. 



Bat, ah ! no fond maternal smflo 

His unprotected youth enjoy'd ; 
His limbs inur'd to early toil, 

His days with early hardships tried : 
And more to mark the gloomy void. 

And bid him feel his misery. 
Before his infant eyes would glide 

Day-dreams of immortality. 

Yet, not by cold neglect depress'd, 

With sinewy ann he turn'd the soil, 
Sunk with the evening sun to rest, 

And met at mom his earliest smile. 
Wak'd by his rustic pipe, meanwliile 

The powers of fancy came along. 
And soothed his lengthen'd hour of toil 

With native wit and sprightly song. 

— Ah ! days of bliss, too swiftly fled. 

When vigorous health from labour springs, 
And bland contentment smooths the bed. 

And sleep his ready opiate brings ; 
And hovering round on airy wings 

Float the light forms of young desire, 
That of unutterable things 

Tho soft and shadowy hope inspire. 



Now spells of mightier power prepare. 

Bid brighter phfyfitoms roimd him dance : 
Let flattery spread her viewless snare, 

And fame attract his vagrant glance : 
Let sprightly pleasure too advance, 

Unveil'd her eyes, unclasp'd her zone, 
Till lost in love's delirious trance 

He scorns the joys his youth has known, 



Let friendship pour her brightest blaze, 

Expanding all the bloom of soul; 
And mirth concentre all her rays. 

And point them from the sparkling bowli 
And let the careless moments roll 

In social pleasures unconfin'd, 
And confidence that spurns control. 

Unlock the inmost springs of mmd. 
A. 2 



ON THE DEATH OF BURNS. 



And lead his steps those bowers among, 

Where elegance with splendour vies, 
Or science bids her favoured throng 

To more refin'd sensations rise ; 
Beyond the peasant's hnnibler joys, 

And freed from eacii laborious strife. 
There let him learn the bliss to prize 

That waits the sons of polished life. 

Tlicn whilst Iiis throbbing veins beat high 

With every impulse of delight. 
Dash from his lips the cup of joy, 

And shroud the scene in shades of night ; 
And let despair, with wizard liglit. 

Disclose the yawning gulf below, 
And pour mcessant on his sight, 

Her spectrcd ills and sliapes of wo : 

And show beneath a cheerless shed, 

With sorrowing heart and streaming eyes, 

In silent grief where droops her head, 
The partner of his early joys ; 



And let his infant's tender cries 
His fond parental succour claim, 

And bid him hear in agonies 
A husband and a father's name. 

'Tis done — the powerful charm succeeds ; 

His liigh reluctant spirit bends ; 
In bitterness of soul he bleeds, 

Nor longer with his fate contends. 
An idiot laugh the welkin rends 

As genius thus degraded lies ; 
Till pitying Heaven the veil extends 

That slirouds the Poet's ardent eyes. 

— Rear high thy bleak, majestic hills. 

Thy shelter'd valleys proudly spread, 
And, Scotia, pour thy thousand rills. 

And wave thy iieaths with blossoms red^ 
But never more shall poet tread 

Thy airy heights, thy woodland reign. 
Since he the sweetest bard is dead 

That ever breath'd the sootliing strain. 



CONTENTS. 



Page 

HiooRAPHrcAL Skf.tch of tlie Author, . iii 

On tlie Dualh of Bums, by Mr. Roscoe, viii 
Preface .to tlie First Editiou of I'urns' 

Poems, published at Kilmarnock, . 1 
Dedication of the Second Edition of 
the Poems formerly printed, To the 
Noblemen and Gentlemen of the 

Caledoniaai Hunt, .... 2 

POEMS, CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. 

The Twa Doa;s, a Tale, ... 3 

Scotch Drink,' 5 

The Author's earnest Cry and Prayer to 
tho Scotch Representatives in the 

House of Commons, ... 7 

Postscript, ...... 8 

Tlie Holy Fair 9 

Death and Dr. Hornbook, . . . 11 
The Brills of Ayr, a Poem inscribed to 

J. p,*********, Esq. Ayr, . . 13 

The Ordination, . . " . . . 16 

The Calf. To the Rev. Mr. . 18 

Address to tlie Deil, ... lb. 
The Deatli and Dying Words of Poor 

Mailio, 19 

Poor Mailie's Elegy, .... 20 

To J. S****, 21 

A Droam 23 

The Vision 24 

Address to the Unco Guid, or tlie Rigid- 
ly Righteous, . ... 27 
Tarn Samson's Elegy, .... 28 
The Epitaph, . . . . 29 
Halloween, . . . . ib. 
The Auld Farmer's New-Year Morning 

Salutation to his Auld Mare Maggie, 33 
To a Mouse, on turning her up in her 
nest with the Plough, November, 

1785 34 

A Winter Night, .... 35 
Efiistlc to Davie, a Brother Poet, . 36 
The Lament, occasioned by the unfor- 
tunate issue of a Friend's Ajnour, , 37 
Despondency, an Ode, ... 38 
\Viiiter, a Dirge, .... 39 
The Cotter's Saturday Nigiit, . . ib. 
Man was made to Mourn, a Dirge, , 42 
A.^ Prayer in the prospect of Death, . 43 
Stanzas on the same occasion, . . ib. 
Versos left by the Author, in the room 
where he slept, having lain at the 
House of a Reverend Friend, . . 44 
The First Psalm, . . iK 



A Prayer, under the pressure of violent 

Anguish, ..... 44 

Tiie first six verses of the Ninetieth 

Psalm 45 

To a Mountain Daisy, on turning one 

dov/n with the Plough, in April, 1766, ib. 

To Ruin ib. 

To Miss L , with Beattie's Poems as 

> a New Year's Gift, .Tan. 1, 1787, . 46 
Epistle to a Young Friend, . . . ib. 
On a Scotch Bard, gone to the West 

Indies, . . ... 47 

To a Haggis, 48 

A Dedication to Gavin Hamilton, Esq. ib. 
To a Louse, on seeing one on a Lady's 

Bonnet at Church, ... 49 

Address to Edinburgh, ... 50 

Epistle to J. Lapraik, an old Scottish 

Bard, 51 

To the Same 52 

To W. S'=***-^n, Ochiltree, May, 1785, 53 
Postscript, ...... 54 

Epistle to J. fl******^ enclosing some 
Poems, ...... 55 

John Barleycorn, a Ballad, ... 56 
Written in Friars-Carse Hermitage, on 

Nith-Sidc, 62 

Ode, sacred to the memory of Mrs. , 

of 63 

Elegy on Capt. Mattliev/ Henderson, . ib. 

The Epitaph, 64 

To Robert Graham, Esq. of Fintra, . 65 
Lament for .lames. Earl of Glencaim, . C6 
Lines sent to Sir John Whitefoord of 
Whitefoord, Bart, with the foregoing 
Poem, ...... 67 

Tarn O' Shanter, a Tale, . . . ib. 
On seeing a wounded Hare limp by me, 

which a fellow had just shot at, . 69 
Address to tho Shade of Thomson, on 
crowning his bust at Ednam, Rox- 
burghshire, with Bays, . . . ib 
Epitaph on a celebrated Ruling Elder, 70 

On a Noisy Polemic, . . . . ib. 

On Wee Johnie, ..... ib. 

For the Author's Father, . . . ib. 

ForR. A. Esq 70 

For a. H. Esq ib, 

A Bard's Epitaph, . . . . ib. 
On the late Captain Grose's Peregrina- 
tions tliri-iugh Scotland, collecting the 
Antiquities of that Kingdom, . . 71 

To Miss Crnikshanks, a very young 
Lady. Written on the blank leaf of a 
Book, presented to her by the Author, ib. 



CONTENTS. 

Pas-e 



On reading in a Newspaper the Death 
of John j\rLcod, Esq. Brother to a 
young Lady, a particular Friend of 
the Autlior's, ..... 72 

Tne Humble petition of Bruar Water to 

the Noble Duke of Athole, . . ib. 

On scaring some Water-Fowl in Loch- 

Turit, 73 

Written with a Pencil over theChimney- 
picce, in the Parlour of the Lin at 
Kenmore, Taymouth, . . . ib. 

Written with a Pencil, standing by the 

Fall of Fyers, near Loch-Ness, . 74 

On the Birth of a Posthumous Child, 
Born in peculiar Circumstances of 
Fa.mily Distress, . . . . ib. 

The Wiiistlc, a Ballad, . , . ib. 

Second Epistle to Davie, ... 76 

Lines on an Interview with Lord 

Daer, 77 

On the Death of a Lap-Dog, named 

Echo .79 

Inscription to the Memory of Fergusson, ib. 

Epistle to R. Graham, Esq. . : ib. 

Fragment, inscribed to the Right Hon. 

C. J. Fox, 81 

To Dr. Blacklock, . . . . ib. 

Prologue, spoken at the Theatre Ellis- 
land, on New-Year's-Day Evening, 82 

Elegy on the late Miss Burnet, of Mon- 

boddo, ...... ib. 

The Rights of Woman, ... 83 

Address, spoken by Miss Fontenelle, 
on her Benefit Night, Dec. 4, 1795, at 
tlie Theatre, Dumfries. ... 84 

Verses to a young Lady, with a present 
of Songs, 95 

Lines written on a blank leaf of a copy 
of his poems presented to a young 
Lady, 104 

Copy of a Poetical Address to Mr. 

William Tytler, .... 117 

Caledonia, . . . . , .118 

Poem written to a Gentleman who had 
sent him a Newspaper, and offered to 
continue it free of expense, . , 119 

Poem on Pastoral Poetry, . . . ib. 

.Sketch— New Year's Day, . . .120 

Extempore, on the late Mr. William 
Smellie, 121 

Poetical Inscription for an Altar to In- 
dependence, ..... ib. 

Sonnet, on the Death of Robert Riddel, 

Esq . ib. 

Monody on a Lady famed for her ca- 
price, . . . . . ib. 

The Epitaph, ... .122 

Answer to a mandate sent by the Sur- 
veyor of the Windows, Carriages, &c. ib. 

Impromptu, on Mrs. 's Birth-day, 123 

To a young Lady, Miss Jessy , 

Dumfries ; with Books which the Bard 
presented her, ..... ib. 

Sonnet, written on the 25th of January, 
1793, the Birth-day of the Author on 



Page- 

hearing a Thrush sing in a morning 

walk, 123 

Extempore, to Mr. S''*e, on refusing to 

dine with him, .... ib. 

To Mr. S ''*e, with a present of a dozen 

of porter, ..... 124 

Poem, addressed to Mr. Mitchell, col- 
lector of Excise, Dumfries, 1796, . ib. 

Sent to a Gentleman whom he had of- 
fended, ib. 

Poem on Life, addressed to Col. De 

Peyster, Dumfries, . . . 125 

Address to the Tooth-ach, . . ib. 

To Robert Graham, Esq. of Fin try, on 

receiving a favour, . . , 127 

Epitaph on a Friend, ... ib. 

A Grace before Dinner, ... ib. 

On Sensibility. Addressed to Mrs. 

Dunlop, of Dunlop, . . . ib. 

A Verse. \^^hen Death's dark stream I 

ferry o'er. ..... ib. 

Verses written at Selkirk, . . . 123 

Liberty, a Fragment, . . . 129 

Elegy on the death of RobertRuisseaux, ib. 

The loyal Natives' Verses, . . 130 

Burns — Extempore, .... ib. 

To J. Lapraik, ..... ib. 

To the Rev. John M'Math, enclosing 
a copy of Holy Willie's Prayer, 

which he had requested, ... ib. 

To Gavin Hamilton, Esq. Maucliline, 

recommending a Boy, . . . 132 

To Mr. M'Adam, of Craigen-Gillan, . ib. 

To Capt. Riddel, Glenriddel, . . ib. 

To Terraughty, on his Birth-day, . 133 

To a Lady, with a present of a pair of 

drmking-glasses, .... ib. 

The Vowels, a Tale, .... ib. 

Sketch 131 

Scots Prologue, for Mr. Sutherland's 

Benefit, ..... ib. 

Extemporaneous Effusion on being ap- 
pointed to the Excise, ... ib 

On seeing the beautiful seat of Lord G. 1 35 

On the same, ..... ib. 

On the same, .... ib. 

To the same on the Author being 

threatened with his resentment, . \o. 

The Dean of Faculty, , . ib. 

Extempore in the Court of Session, ib. 

Verses to J. Ranken, . . . 136 

On hearing that there was falsehood in 

the Rev. Dr. B 's very looks, . ib. 

On a Schoolmaster in Cleish Parish, 

P^ifeshire, ..... ib. 

Elegy on the Year 1788, a Sketch, . ib 

Verses written under the Portrait of 

Fergusson, the Poet, . . . 137 

The Guidwife of Wauchope-house to 

Robert Burns, .... 147 

The Answer, 148 

The Kirk's Alarm, A Satire, . , 154 

The twa Herds 155 

Epistle from a Taylor to Robert Burns, 156 

The Answer, ... . ib 



CONTENTS 



LeUor to John Goudie, Kilmarnock, on 
the pubhca tion of his Essays, 

Letter to J— s T 1 Gl nc r, 

On tiie Death of Sir James Hunter 
niair, 

The Jo'\y Beggars, a Cantata. 



SONGS. 



A. 

Adieu ! a heart-warm, fond adieu I 
Adown winding' Nith 1 did wander, 
Ae fond kiss and then we sever, 
Again rejoicing nature sees, 
A Highland lad my love was born, 
Altho' my bed were in yon muir, 
Amang the trees where humming bees. 
An O, for ane and twenty. Tarn ! 
Ance mair 1 hail thee, thou gloomy De- 
cember ! .... 
Anna, thy charms my bosom fire, 
A rose-bud by my early walk, 
As 1 cam in by our gate-end. 
As I stood by yon rootless tower, 
As I was a-wandering ae morning in 

spring, 

Awa wi' your witchcraft o' beauty's 
alarms, 



B. 



Behind yon hills where Lugar flows, 
Behold the hour, the boat arrive ; 
Be3'ond thee, dearie, beyond thee. 

dearie, ..... 
Blithe, blithe and merry was she. 
Blithe hae I been on yon hill, 
Bonnie lassie will ye go, 
Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing, 
But lately seen in gladsome green. 
By Allan stream I chanced to rove, 
By yon castle wa\ at the close of tlie 

day, 



C. 



Ca' tlie yowes to the knowes. 
Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy ? 
Clarinda, mistress of my soul. 
Come, let me take thee to my breast, 
Comin thro' the rye, poor body, 
Contented wi' little, and cantie wi' mair. 
Could aught of song declare my pains, 



D. 



Deluded sv'ain, the pleasure. 

Does haughty Gaul invasion threat ? 



15'' 
ib. 



l.W 

15a 



61 
92 
141 
60 
160 
146 
145 
112 

114 
71 
107 
149 
117 

147 

105 



59 
93 

139 

107 

90 

106 

112 

98 

91 

83 



96 
100 
108 

92 
129 
100 
150 



94 
124 



Page 
Duncan Gray came here to woo, . 86 



Fair the face of orient day, . . 151 

Fairest maid on Devon banks, . . 106 
Farewell, thou fair day, thou green 

earth, and ye skies, ... 83 
Farewell thou stream that winding 

flows, ...... 99 

Farewell, ye dungeons dark and strong, 142 

P''ate gave the word, the arrow sped, . ]1G 

First when Maggie was my care, . 142 
Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy 

green braes, . . . . .115 

Forlorn, my love, no comfort near, , 104 

From thee, Eliza, I must go, , . Gl 



G. 



Gane is the day, and mirk's the night, . Ill 

Go fetch to me a pint o' wine, . . 137 

Green grows the rashes, 01 . . 59 

H. 

Had I a cave on some wild, distant shore, 91 
Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie, 83 
Here's a bottle and an honest friend, . 143 
Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear, . 105 
Here's a health to them that's awa, . 146 
Here is the glen, and here the bower, 95 
Her flowing locks, the raven's wing, . 147 
How can my poor lieart be glad, . 96 
How cruel are the parents, . . 102 
How long and dreary is the night, . 97 
How pleasant the banks of tne clear- 
winding Devon, .... 78 
Husband, husband, cease your strife, . 95 



I. 



I am a bard of no regard, . 169 

I am a fiddler to my trade, . , 161 

I am a son of Mars, .... 159 

I do confess thou art so fair, . . 138 
I dream'd I lay where flowers were 

springing, . . . . .137 

I gaed a waefu' gate yestreen, . , 110 

I hae a wife o' my ain, ... 78 

I'll ay ca' in by yon town, . , 142 
I'll kiss thee yet, yet, . . . .143 

In simmer vs^hen the hay was mawn, . 112 
I once was a maid tiio' I caimot tell 

when, 159 

Is there for honest poverty, . , 100 

It was upon a Lammas night, . , 58 

It was the charming month of May, . 98 



J. 

Jockey's ta'en the parting kiss, 
John Anderson my jo, John, 



i26 



CONTENTS. 



K. 



Ken ye ouglit o' Captain Grose? 



L. 



Lassie wi' the lint-white locks, 

Last May a braw wooer cam down the 

lantv o'len, 
Let mo ryke up to (light that tear, 
Let not woman e'er complain 
Lonir, |on<r the night, . 
Loud hlaw the frosty breezes, 
Louis, what reck 1 by thee, . 



M. 



Mark yonder pomp of costly fashion, . 
Musino' on the roaring ocean. 
My bonny lass, I work in brass, . 
My Chloris, mark how green the groves. 
My father was a farmer upon the Car- 
rick border, O, .... 
My heart is a-brcaking, dear Tittie, 
My heart 's in the Highlands, my heart 

is not here ; . . . . 

My heart is sair, T dare na tell, 
Mv lady's gown there's gairs npon't. 
My Peggy's face, my Peggy's form, 



N. 



Pfs ? Centle dames, tho' e'er sae fair, . 
No churchman am I for to rail and to 

write, ...... 

Now bank and brae are claith'd in green 
Now in her green mantle blithe natm^e 

arrays, ...... 

Now )iature hangs her mantle green 
Now rosy May comes in wi' flowers 
Now spring lias cloth'd the groves in 

green, . . . • • • 
Now wtslin winds and slaughtering 



guns, 



O. 



O ay my wife she dang me, 
O bonnie was yon rosy brier, 
O cam ye here the fight to shun, . 
Of a' the alrts the wind can blaw, 
O gin mv love were yon red rose, 
O guid lie comes, and guid ale goes, 
O how can I be blithe and glad, . 
Oh, open the door, some pity to show. 
Oh, wert thoa in the cauld blast, . 
O ken yewhaMeg o' the Mill has got- 
ten ....•• 
O lassie, nrt thou sleepin yet? 
O leave novels, ye Mauchlme belles, 
O lee/.e me on my spinning wheel, 
O Lof'-an, swectlv didst thou ghde, 
O lovely Polly Stewart, 
O luve will v(3nture in, where it daur na 
weel be seen. 



Page 



12G 



90 

104 
161 
97 
102 
WG 
116 



10!? 
107 
161 

98 

140 
110 

138 
116 
150 
126 



62 
141 

100 
64 
93 

103 

58 



151 
104 
120 
lOi) 

90 
150 
141 

88 
123 

89 
101 
151 
112 

90 
149 

113 



O Mary, at thy window be, 
O May, thy morn was ne'er sae sweet, 
O nioikle thinks my luve o' my beauty 
O mirk, mirk is the midnight hour, 
O my luve's like a red, red rose, . 
On a bank of flowers, one summer's 

day, ..... 

On Ccssnock banks there lives a lass. 
One night as I did wander, . 
O, once I lov'd a bonnie lass, 
O Philly, happy be the day, . 

O poortith cauld, and restless love, 
O raging fortune's withering blast, 
O saw ye bonnie Lesley, 
O saw ye my dear, my Phely? 
O stay, sweet warbling wood-lark, stay 
O tell na me o' wind and rain, 
O, this is no my ain lassie, . . 
O Tibbie, I hae seen the day. 
Out over the P'orth 1 look to the north. 
O, wat ye wha's in yon town, 
O, were 1 on Parnassus' hill 1 
O wha is she that lo'es me, . 
O wha my babic-clouts will buy ? 
O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad 
O, Willie brew'd a peck o' maut, . 
O wilt thou go wi' me, sweet Tibbie 

Duid)ar, ..... 
O why the deuce should I repine, 



122 I Powers celestial, whose protection 



R. 

Raving winds around her blowing, 
Robin shure in hairst, . 



Sae flaxen were her ringlets, 
Scenes of wo and scenes of pleasure, 
Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled. 
See the smoking bowl before us, . 
She's fair and fause that causes my 

smart, . . . _ • 
She is a winsome wee thing, 
Should auld acquaintance be forgot. 
Sir Wisdom's a fool when he's fou, 
Sleep'st thou, or wak'st thou, fairest 

creature, 

Slow spreads the gloom my soul 

desires, ..... 
Stay my charmer, can you leave me? 
Streams that glide in orient plains. 
Sweet fa's the eve on Craigie-burn, 

T. 

The bairns sat out wi' an unco sliout, 
The Catrine woods were yellow seen, 
The day returns, my bosom burns. 



Pngt 

8? 
116 
111 

87 
117 

151 
143 

145 

79 

99 

86 

146 

85 

97 

i'Ol 

ib. 

103 

108 

142 

116 

109 

125 

138 

92 

110 

149 
163 



144 



107 
149 



9G 
127 

94 
162 

115 

85 

93 

160 

97 

152 

106 

78 

101 



150 
109 
ib. 



CONTENTS. 



Page 

Tht) deil cam fiddling tlio" tlic town, . 144 

Tilt; fziooiiiy nig'lil is gaiirriiiir fast, . CO 
Tin; lioalher was blooming,tlic meadows 

were mawn, ..... 144 
The lazv mist hangs from iho brow of 

the hill, 109 

Tiie lovely lass o' Inverness, . . IIG 
The small birds rejoice in the green 

leaves returning, ... 79 

The smiling spring comes in rejoicmg, . 115 

The Thames tlows proudly to the sea, . 110 
The wmter it is past, and the simmer 

comes at last, . . . . .147 
Their groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign 

lands reckon, 102 

There's auld Rob Morris that vvons in 

yon glen, 86 

There's a youth in this city, it were a 

great pity, 138 

Tliere's braw, braw lads on Yarrow- 
braes, 87 

There waa a bonnie lass, and a boimie, 

boiinie lass, 149 

There wtt". a lad was born at Kyle, . 146 

Tliore was a lass and she was fair, . . 90 

There were five cariins in the South, . 152 

Thickest night o'erliang my dwelling ! . 106 

Thine am I, my faithful fair, . . 94 

Tho' cnxd fate should bid us part, , 141 

Thou hrust left me ever, Jamie, . . 93 

Thou htigering star, with lessening ray, 77 
To thee, lov'd Nith, tliy gladsome 

plaiiia, 147 

T.'ue lieatred was he, the sad swain of 

Yarrow, 89 

Tarn again, thou fair Eliza, . . 113 
Tw&s even, the dewy fields were 

j^reen, ...... 76 

1 was na her bonnie blue c'e was my 

ruin; . . 102 



Paga 



U. 



Up m tlie morning's no for mo, . • 

W. 

Wae is my heart and the tear's in my e'e. 
Wee Willie Gray, and his leather wallet ; 
Wha is this at my bower door ? . 
What can a young lassie, what shall a 

young lassie, ..... 
When first I came to Stewart Kyle, . 
When Guilford good our pilot stood, . 
Wiien o'er the liill the eastern star, . 
When January winds were blawing 

cauld, ...... 

When wild war's deadly blast was 

blawn, ...... 

Where are the joys I hae met in the 

morning, ...... 

Where braving angry winter's storms, 
Where Cart rins rowin to the sea, 
While larks, with little wing, . . 
Wiiy, why tell thy lover, . . . 
Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, . 
Willie Wastle dwalt on Tweed, . . 
Wilt thou be my dearie ? , . . 

Y. 

Ye banks and braes, and streams, 
around, ...... 

Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, 
Ye flowery banks o' bonnie Dqon, 
Ye gallants bright I red you right. 
Yestreen I had a pint o' wine, . 
Yon wand'ring rill, that marks the hill, 
Yon wild mossy mountains, . . 
Young Jockey was the blithest lad, . 
Young Peggy blooms our bonniest lass, 
You're welcome to Despots, Dumourier, 



137 



144 
140 

111 

146 
57 

84 

153 

89 

94 

108 
115 

91 
105 

85 
114 

lb. 



85 
113 
114 
137 
144 
149 
139 
14'i 
145 
136 



CONTENTS 

OP THS 



ADDITIONAL POEMS 



Holt Willie's Prayer, • 

The Farewell, 

Willie Chalmers, . 

Lines written on a Bank-Note, 

A Bard's Epitaph, . 

Epistle to Major Logan, . 

On the Death of Robert Dundas, Esq., 

Epistle to Hugh Parker, 

To John M'Murdo, Esq., 

Epistle to Robert Graham, Esq, 

Address of Beelzebub to the President 

of the Highland Society, 
To John Taylor, 
On seeing Miss Fontenelle in a favour' 

ite character,, . 

The Book- Worms, 
The Reproof, . . 
The Reply, 

The Kirk of Lamington, 
The League and Covenant) 
Inscription on a Goblet, 
The Toad-Eater, 
The Selkirk Grace, . 
On the Poet's Daughter, 
The Sons of Old Killie, 
On a -Suicide, 
The Joyful Widower, 
There was a Lass, . 
Theniel Menzie's Bonnie Mary, 

16 



Page. 

3 

4 
ib. 
ib. 

5 
' ib. 

6 
ib. 

7 
ib. 

8 
ib. 

9 
ib. 
ib. 
ib. 
ib. 
ib. 
ib. 
ib. 
ib. 
ib. 
ib. 
10 
ib. 
ib. 
ib. 



Frae the Friends and Land I Love, 
Weary Fa' You, Duncan Gray, 
The Elude Red Rose at Yule may 

blaw, 

The Ploughman, . . . 
Rattlin', Roarin' WiUie, . 
As I was a-wandering, . . 
My Harry was a Gallant Gay, 
Simmer's a Pleasant Time, . 
When Rosy May, ... 
Lady Mary Ann, . . . 
My Love She's but a Lassie Yet, 
Sensibility how Charming, . 
Out over the Forth, * . 

The Tither Morn, . 
The Cardin' o't, 
The Weary Pund o' Tow, 
Sae Far Awa, . . . 

Such a Parcel of Rogues in a Nation, 
Here's His Health in Water ! . 
The Lass of Ecclefechan, . 

The Highland Laddie, . . 
Here's to Thy Health, My Bonnie Lass. 
Address to a Young Lady, . 

Song, 

Lay Thy Loof in Mine, Lass, 
To Chloris, .... 
Peg-a-Ramsey, t • 



Page. 
11 
ib. 

ib. 
12 
ib. 
ib. 
13 
ib. 
ib. 
ib. 
14 
ib. 
ib. 
ib. 
15 
ib. 
ib. 
ib 
16 
ib. 
ib. 
ib. 
17 
ib. 
ib. 
ib. 
18 



PREFACE 



TO THE 



FIRST SDITIOXr 



^» 



PUBLISHED AT KILMARNOCK IN 1786. 



The following trifles are not the production 
of the poet, who, with all the advantages of 
learned art, and, perhaps amid the elegancies 
and idlenesses of upper life, looks down for a 
rural theme, with an eye to Theocritus or Vir- 
gi.. To the author of this, these and other 
celebrated names, their countrymen, are, at 
least in their original language, a fountain shut 
up, and a bjok scaled. Unacquainted with the 
necessary requisites for commencing poet by 
rule, he sings the sentiments and manners he 
"elt and saw in himself and his rustic com- 
neers around him, in his and their native lan- 
guage. Though a rhymer from his earliest 
years, at least from the earliest impulses of 
the softer passions, it was not till very lately 
that the applause, periiaps the partiality, of 
friendship, wakened his vanity so far as to 
make him think any thing of his worth show- 
ing ; and none of the following works were 
composed with a view to tlic press. To amuse 
himself with the little creations of his own 
fancy, amid the toil and fatifues of a laborious 
life ; to transcribe the various feelings, the 
loves, the griefs, the hopes, the fears, in his 
own breast : to find some kind of counterpoise 
to the struggles of a world, always an alien 
scene, a task uncouth to the poetical mind — 
those were his motives for courting the Muses, 
and in these he found poetry to be its own re- 
ward. 

Now that he appears in the public character 
of an author, he does it with fear and trem- 
bling. So dear is fame to the rhyming tribe, 
that even he, an obscure, nameless Bard, shrinks 
aghast at the thought of being branded as — An 
impertinent blockhead, obtruding his nonsense 
on vlie vi'crld ; and, because he can make a shift 
to jingle a few doggerel Scotch rhymes to- 
B 



gether, looking upon himself as a poet of no 
small consequence, forsooth ! 

It is an observation of that celebrated poet, 
Shenstone, whose divine elegies do honour to 
our language, our nation, and our species, that 
" Humilitj/ has depressed many a genius to a 
hermit, but never raised one to fame !" If any 
critic catches at the word genius, the author 
tells him once for all, that he certainly looks 
upon himself as possessed of some poetic abili- 
ties, otherwise his publishing in the manner he 
has done, would be a manoeuvre below the 
worst character, which, he hopes, his worst 
enemy will ever give him. But to the genius 
of a Ramsay, or tlie glorious dawnings of the 
poor unfortunate Fergusson, he, with equal un- 
affected sincerity, declares, that, even in his 
highest pulse of vanity, he has not the most 
distant pretensions. These two justly admired 
Scotch poets he has often had in his eye in the 
following pieces ; but rather with a view to 
kindle at their flame than for servile unitation. 

To his Subscribers, the author returns his 
most sincere thanks. Not the mercenary bow 
over a counter, but the heart-throbbing grati- 
tude of the bard, conscious how much he owes 
to benevolence and friendsliip, for gratifying 
him, if he deserves it, in that dearest wish ol 
every poetic bosom — to be distingished. He 
begs his readers, particularly the learned and 
the polite, who may honour him with a perusal, 
that they will make every allowance for edu- 
cation and circumstances of life ; but if, after 
a fair, candid, and impartial criticism, he shall 
stand convicted of dulness and nonsense, let 
iiim be done by as he would in that case do 
by others — let liim be condemned, without 
mercy, to contempt and oblivion. 



BMBS^OAl^I©!! 



SECOND EDITION OF THE 



POEMS FORMERLY PRINTED. 



ITOBXiSMElSr ANH GX:iTTI.EMEir 



CALEDOmAJsr HUJVT. 



Mr Lords and Gentlemen, 
A Scottish Bard, proud of tlie name, and 
wliose hig'licst ambition is to sing in his Coun- 
try's service — vvliere shall lie so properly look 
for patronage as to the illustrious names of his 
native Land ; those who bear the honours and 
inherit the virtues of their Ancestors? The 
Poetic Genius of my Country found nie, as the 
prophetic bard Elijah did Elisha — at the 
plough ; and throw her inspiring mantle over 
me. She bade me sing the loves, the joys, the 
rural scenes and rural pleasures of my native 
soil, in my native tongue : I tuned my wild, 
artless notes, as she inspired — She whispered 
me to come to this ancient Metropolis of Cale- 
donia, and lay my Songs under your honoured 
protection ; I now obey her dictates. 

Though much mdebted to your goodness, I 
do not approach you, my Lords and Gentle- 
men, in the usual style of dedication, to thank 
you for past favours ; that i>ath is so hackneyed 
by prostituted learning, that honest rusticity is 
ashamed of it. Nor do I present this Address 
with the venal soul of a servile Author, look- 
ing for a continuation of those favours ; I was 
bred to the Plough, and am independent. I 
come to claim the common Scottish name with 
you, my illustrious Countrymen ; and to tell 
the world that I glory in the title. I come to 
f'.ongratulato my Country, that the blood of her 



ancient heroes still runs uncontaminatcd ; and 
that from your courage, knowledge, and public 
spirit, she may expect protection, wealth, and 
liberty. In the last place, I come to proftcr my 
warmest wishes to the Great Fountain of Ho- 
nour, tlie Monarch of tlio Universe, for your 
welfare and happmess. 

When you go forth to waken the Echoes, in 
the ancient and favourite amusement of your 
forefathei's, may Pleasure ever be of your party ; 
and may Social Joy await your return : When 
harassed in courts or camps with the jostlmgs 
of bad men and bad measures, may the honest 
consciousness of injured worth attend your re- 
turn to your native Seats ; and may Domestic 
Happiness, with a smiling welcome, meet you 
at your gates ! May corruption shrink at your 
kindling indignant glance ; and may tyranny 
in the Ruler, and licentiousness in the People, 
equally find you an inexorable foe ! 
I have the honour to be, 
With tlie sincerest gratitude, 
and highest respect. 
My Lords and Gentlemen, 
Your most devoted humble servant. 



ROBERT BURNS 



KdinlxifRh, 
April 4, 1787. 



CHIEF!. -y- SCOTTISH. 



THE TWA DOGS, 



'TwAS in that place o' Scotland's isle, 
That bears the name o' Auld King Coil, 
V\to\\ a bonnie day in June, 
When wearintr tliro' the afternoon, 
Twa dogs that were na thrang at hame, 
Forgather''d ance upon a time. 

Tiie first ril name, they ca'd him Cccsar, 
Was keepit for his Honour's pleasure : 
His hair, his size, liis moutli, liis lugs, 
Sliow'd he was nane o' Scotland's dogs; 
But whalpit some place far abroad, 
Where sailors gang to fish for Cod. 

His locked, letter'd, braw brass collar, 
Sliow'd him the gentleman and scholar; 
But though he was o' high degree, 
The fiont a pride, na pride had lie ; 
But wad hac si)cnt an hour caressin, 
Ev'n wi' a tinkler-gyi)scy*s nicssin. 
At kirk or market, mill or smiddie, 
Nae tawted tyke, tho' e'er sac duddic, 
But he wad stawn't, as glud to see him, 
And stroan't on stones an' Ixillocks wi' him. 

The tither was a ])loughman's collie, 
A rhymino', ranting, raving billie, 
Wlia for his friend an' comrade had him. 
And in his freaks had Lunlh ca'd hijn, 
After some dog in Highland sang,* 
Was made lang syne — Lord luiows how lang. 

He was a gash an' faithfu' tyke, 
As ever lap a sheugh or dyke. 
His honest, sonsie, baws'nt face, 
Ay gat him friends in ilka place. 
His breast was white, his towzie back 
Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy black ; 
His gawcie tail, wi' ujjward curl, 
Hung o'er his hurdles wi' a swurl. 

Nae doubt but they were fain o' ither, 
An' unco pack an' tliick thegithcr ; 

* Cucliullin's dog in Ossian's Fingal. 



Wi' social nose whyles snufTd and snowkit, 
Whylcs mice an' moudicworts they howkit ; 
Whyles scour'd awa' in lang excursion 
An' worry 'd ither in diversion ; 
Until wi' dalfin weary grown. 
Upon a knowe they sat them dovni, 
And there hegan a lang digression 
About the lords o' the creation. 

C^SAR. 

I've afien wonder'd, honest Lualh, 
Wliat sort o' life poor dogs like you have; 
An' when the gentry's life I saw 
What way poor bodies liv'd ava. 

Our Laird gets in liis racked rents, 
His coals, his kain, and a' his stents; 
He rises when he likes liimsel ; 
His flunkies answer at the bell ; 
He ca's his coach, he ca's his horse ; 
He draws a bonnie silken purse 
As lang's my tail, wliare, thro' the steeks, 
The yellow letter'd Geordie keeks. 

Frae mom to e'en it's nought but toiling, 
At baking, roasting, frying, boiling ; 
An' tho' the gentry first are stechin. 
Yet ev'n the ha' folk fill their pechan 
VVi' sauce, ragouts, and siclike trashtrie, 
That's little short o' downright wastrie. 
Our Whip])er-in, wee blastit wonner, 
Poor worthless elf, it ears a dinner, 
Better than ony tenant man 
His Honour has in a' the Ian' : 
An' what i)oor cot-folk pit their painch in, 
I own it's past my comprehension. 

LUATH. 

Trowth,CfBsar, whyles they're fash't eneugh , 
A cottar howkin in a sheuc'h, 
Wi' dirty stanes biggin a dyke. 
Baring a quarry, and sic like, 
Himself, a wife, he thus sustains, 
A smytrie o' wee duddic weans. 
An' nought but his iian' darg, to keep 
Them right and tight in thacls an' rape 



BURNS' POEMS. 



An' when they meet wi' sair disasters, 
Like loss o' health, or want o' masters, 
Ye maist wad tliink, a wee touch langer, 
AiT tluiy matin starve o' cauld an' huni^er; 
I5ut, how it comes, 1 never kenn'd yet, 
They're maistly wondcrfu' contented; 
An' linirdly chicls, an' clever liizzics, 
Are bred in sic a way as this is. 



C^SAR. 



But tiien to sec how ye're nej;:Ieckit, 
Flow hnlV'd, and cutl"d, and disrespeckit 
L — d, man, our gentry care as little 
For delvors, ditchers, an' sic cattle ; 
They ijaiiff as saucy by poor fo'k, 
As I wad \)y a stinkuig brock. 

I've notic'd on our Laird's court-day. 
An' mony a time my lieart's been wae, 
I'oor tenant bodies scant o' cash, 
Ifow they maun thole a factor's snash: 
He'll stamp an' tln'calen, curse an' swear, 
!h)'ll ai)i)reiien(l them, poind their gear; 
While they maun staun', wi' aspect humble. 
An' liear it a', an' fear aia' tremble. 

I see how folk live that hae riclies ; 
But surely poor folk maun be wretches? 

LUATH. 

They're nae sao wretched's ane wad think : 
Tlio' constantly on poortith's brhik : 
They're sao accustom'd wi' the sight, 
Tiio view o't gies them little frialit. 



Then chance an' fortune are sae guided. 
They're ay in less or mair provided ; 
An' tho' fatigu'd wi' close employment, 
A blink o' rest's a sweet enjoyment. 

The dearest comfort o' their lives. 
Their grusliie weans an' faithfn' wives ; 
The prattling things are just their pride. 
That sweetens a' their fire-side. 

An' whylos twalpennie wortli o' nappy 
Can mak the bodies unco happy; 
They lay aside their private cares, 
To meiul tlio Kirk and State atfairs* 
Tliey'U trtlk o' i>atronage and priests, 
Wi' kindling fury in their breasts. 
Or tell what now ta.\a*ion .-. comin, 

n' ferlie at the folk m Lotion. 

As bleak-fac'd Hallowmass returns, 
Tliey get the jovial, ranting kirns. 
When rural life, o' ev'ry station, 
Unite in common recreation ; 



Love blinks, Wit slaps, an' social Mirtli, 
Forgets there's Care upo' the earth. 

That merry day the year begins. 
They bar the door on frosty wmds ; 
The nappy reeks wi' mantling ream. 
An' sheds a heart-inspiring steam ; 
The luntin pijie, an' sneeshin mill, 
Are handed round wi' richt guid will ; 
Tlie cantie auld folks crackin crouse, 
The young ancs rantin thro' the jiouse,-- 
My heart has been sae fain to see them. 
That I for joy liae barkit wi' them. 

Still it's owre true that ye hae said, 
Sic game is now owre aften play'd. 
There's monie a creditable stock, 
O' decent, honest, fawsont fo'k. 
Are riven out bailh root and branch, 
Some rascal's pridefu' greed to quench, 
Wha thinks to knit himsel the faster 
In favour wi' some gentle master, 
Wha, aiblins, thrang a-pariiamentin. 
For Britain's guid his saul indeului — 



C^SAR. 

Haith, lad, ye little ken about it ; 
For Britain's guid! guid faith ! I doubt it 
Say rather, gaun as Premiers lead him, 
An' saying ai/e or ?i«'5 they bid him. 
At operas an' plays parading. 
Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading ; 
Or may be, in a frolic daft. 
To Hague or Calais takes a wafl. 
To make a tour, an' tak a whirl. 
To learn boti ton, an' see the waii'. 



There, at Vienna or Versailles 
He rives his father's auld entails ; 
Or by Madrid he takes tlie rout. 
To thrum guitars, and fecht wi' nowt ; 
Or down Italian vista startles, 
Wh-re-luinting among groves o' myrtles 
Then bouses drumly German water. 
To mak himsel look fair and fatter. 
An' clear tho consequential sorrows. 
Love-gifts of Carnival signoras. 
For lirilains guid ! for her destruction ! 
Wi' dissipation, feud, an' faction. 



LUATH. 

Hech man I dear Sirs ! is that the gate 
They waste sae mony a braw estate ! 
Are we sae fougliten an' harass'd 
For gear to g;uig that gate at last ! 

O would they stay aback frae courts, 
An' please thcinsels wi' Idntra spoi Is, 



BURNS' POEMS. 



It wad fpr cv'ry anc be bettor, 
TIk' Laird, the Tenant, and the Cotter ! 
h'or thae frank, rantiii, raniblin billies, 
Fient liaet o' tliem's ill-heaitod follows ; 
Except for brcakin o' their tiinmer, 
Or speak in lightly o' their limmer, 
Or shootin o' a hare or moor-cock, 
The ne'er a bit they're ill to poor folk. 

But will ye tell me, Master CcEsar, 
Sure great folk's life's a life o' pleasure? 
Nae cauld nor hunger e'er can steer them, 
Tiie vera thought o't need na fear them. 



CiESAR. 

L — d, man, were ye but whylcs whare I am, 
The gentles ye wad ne'er envy 'em. 

It's true they need na starve or sweat, 
Thro' winter's cauld, or simmer's heat ; 
Tiiey'vc nao sair wark to craze their banes, 
An' "fill auld age wi' gripes an' granes : 
But human bodies are sic fools, 
For a" their colleges and schools. 
That wl>cn nae real ills perplex them, 
They make enow themselves to vex them ; 
An' ay the less they hac to start them, 
Li like proportion less will hurt them. 
A country fellow at the jjlcugh, 
His acres tilFd, he's right eneugh ; 
A kintra lassie at her wiieel. 
Her dizzens done, she's unco weel : 
But Gentlemen, an' Ladies warst, 
W i' ev'iidown want o' wark are curst. 
They loiter, lounging, lank, an' lazy ; 
Tho' deil haet ails them, yet uneasy ; 
Their days, insipid, dull, an' tasteless ; 
Tlieir nights unquiet, lang an' restless ; 
An' e'en their sports, tlieir balls an' races, 
Their galloping thro' public jjlaces. 
Tliere's sic parade, sic pomp, an' art, 
The joy can scarcely reach tlie heart. 
The men cast out in party matches. 
Then sowther a' in deep debauches ; 
Ac night they're mad wi' drink an' wh-ring, 
Niest day their life is past enduring. 
The Ladies arm-in-arm in clusters. 
As great and gracious a' as sisters ; 
But hear their absent thoughts o' ither. 
They're a' run deils an' jads thegither. 
Whyles o'er the wee bit cup an' platie. 
They sip the scandal potion pretty ; 
Or lee-lang nights, wi' crabbit leuks 
Pore owre the devil's pictur'd beuks ; 
Stake on a chance a farmer's stackyard, 
An' cheat like onie mihang'd blackguard. 

There's some exception, man an' woman ; 
But this is Gentry's life in common. 

By this, the sun was out o' sight, 
An' darker gloaming brought the night ! 
The bum clock humm'd wi' lazy drone ; 
The kye stood rowtin i' the loan ; 



Wlien up they gat, and shook their lugs. 
Rejoiced they were na men but dogs ; 
An' each took aff his several way, 
Resolv'd to meet some ither day. 



SCOTCH DRINK. 



Gie him strong drink, until he wink, 

That's siiilting in despair ; 
An' liquor guid to fire liisbluid, 

Tliat's press'd wi' grief an' care ; 
There let him bouse, an' deep carouse 

Wi' bumpers flowing o'er, 
Till he forgets his loves or debts 

An' minds hie griefs no more. 

Solomon's Proverbs xxxi. 6, 7. 



Let other poets raise a fracas 

'Bout vines, an' wines, an' drunken Bacchus^ 

An' crabbit names an' stories wrack us. 

An' grate our lug, 
I sing the juice Scots bear can mak us, 

In glass or jug, 

O thou, my Muse ! guid auld Scotch DririK 
Whether thro' wimpling worms thou jmk. 
Or, richly brown, ream o'er the brink. 

In glorious faem, 
Inspire me, till I lisp and wink. 

To sing thy name ! 

Let husky Wheat the laughs adorn, 
An' Aits set up their awnie horn, 
An' Pease and Beans at e'en or mom. 

Perfume the plain, 
Leeze me on thee, John Barleijcom, 

Thou king o' grain ! 

On thee aft Scotland cliows her cood. 
In souple scones, the wale o' food ! 
Or tumblin in the boihng flood 

Wi' kail an' beef; 
But when tliou pours thy strong heart's blood 

There thou shines chief. 

Food fills the wame, an' keeps us livin ; 
Tho' life's a gift no worth receivin. 
When heavy dragg'd wi' pine an' grievin. 

But, oil'd by thee, 
The wheels o' life gae down-hill, scrievin, 

Wi' rattlin glee. 

Thou clears the head o' doited Lear ; 
Thou cheers the heart o' droopin Care) 



BURNS' POEMS. 



Thou strings the nerves o' Labour sair, 
At"s weary toil, 

Thou even brightens dark Despair 

Wi' gloomy smile. 



Aft, clad in massy siller weed, 
Wi' Gentles thou erects thy head ; 
Yet humbly kind m time o' need, 

The poor man's wine ; 
His wee drap parritch, or his bread, 

Thou kitchens fine. 



Thou art the life o' public haunts ; 
But thee, what were our fairs and rants ? 
Ev'n godly meetings o' the saunts, 

By thee inspir'd, 
When gaping they besiege the tents, 

Are doubly fir'd. 



That merry night we get the corn in, 
O sweetly then thou reams the horn in ! 
Or reekm on a New-year morning 

In cog or bicker, 
An' just a wee drap sp 'ritual burn in, 

An' gusty sucker ! 



When Vulcan gies his bellows breath, 
An' plouo-hmeu gather wi' their graith, 
O rare ! to see thee fizz an freath 

V th' luggit caup ! 
Then Bumewin* comes on like death 
At every chaup. 



Nae mercy, then, for aim or steel ; 
The brawnie, bainie, ploughman cliiel. 
Brings hard owrehip, wi' sturdy wheel, 

The strong forehanuner, 
Till block an' studdie ring an' reel 

Wi' dinsorae clamour. 



When skirlin wcanies see the light, 
Thou maks the gossips clatter bright. 
How fumblin cuifs their dearies slight ; 

Wae wortli the name ! 
Nae howdie gets a social night, 

Or plack frae tliem. 



When neebors anger at a plea, 
An' just as wud as wud can be. 
How easy can the barley bree 

Cement the quarrel ! 
It's aye the cheapest lawyer's fee 

To taste the barrel. 



* Parneioin—bum-the-wind--the Blacksmith— an 
•ppropriate title. E. 



Alake ! that e'er my Muse has reason 
To wyte her countrymen wi' treason 1 
But monie daily weet their weason 

Wi' liquors nice. 
An' hardly, in a winter's season, 
E'er spier her price. 



Wae worth that brandy, burning trash ! 
Fell source o' monie a pain an' brash 
Twins monie a poor, doylt, drunken hash, 

O' half his days 
An' sends, beside, auld Scotland's cash 
To her warst faes. 



Ye Scots, wha wish auld Scotland well ! 
Ye chief, to you my tale I tell. 
Poor plackless deevils like mysel ! 

It sets you ill, 
Wi' bitter, dearthfu' wines to mell. 

Or foreign gill. 



May gravels round his blather wrench, 
An' gouts torment him inch by inch, 
Wha twists his gruntle wi' a glunch 

O' sour disdain. 
Out owre a glass o' whixky punch 

Wi' honest men. 



O Whisky ! saul o' plays an' pranks ! 
Accept a Bardie's humble thanks I 
When wanting thee, what tuneless cranka 

Are my poor verses ! 
Thou comes — they rattle i' their ranks 

At ither's a — s I 



Thee, Ferinlosh ! O sadly lost ! 
Scotland, lament frae coast to coast ! 
Now colic grips, an' barkin boast 

May kill us a' ; 
For royal Forbes' charter'd boast 

Is ta'eu awa I 



Thae curst horse-leeches o' the Excise, 
Wha mak the Whisky Slells their prize \ 
Haud up thy lian', Deil ! ance, twice, thrice J 
There, seize the blinkers ! 
And bake them up in brunstane pies 

For poor d — n'd drinkers 



Fortune I if thou'U but gie me stUl 
Hale breeks, a scone, and Whisky gill, 
An' rowth o' rhyms to rave at will, 

Tak a' the rest. 
An' deal't about a-s thy blind skill 

Directs thee best. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



THE AUTHOR'S 



EARNEST CRY AND PRAYER* 

TO THE 

SCOTCH REPRESENTATIVES, 

IN THE 

HOUSE OF COMMONS. 



Dearest of Distillation ! 
How art thou lost ] 



last and best— — 

Parody on Milton. 



Ye Irish Lords, ye Kniglits an' Squires, 
Wlia represent our bruglis an' shires, 
An' doucely manage our affairs 

In parliament. 
To you a simple Poet's i)rayers 

Arc humbly sent. 

Alas I my roupet Muse is hearse I 
Your honors' hearts wi' grief 'twad pierce, 
To see her sittin on her a — 

Low i' the dust. 
An' scriechin out prosaic verse, 

An' lilie to brust ! 

Tell them wha hae the chief direction, 
Scotland an' ma's in great affliction, 
E'er sin' they laid that curst restriction, 

On Jlquavilm; 
An' rouse them up to strong conviction. 

An' move their pity. 

Stand forth, an' tell yon Premier Youth, 
The honest, open, naked truth : 
Tell him o' mine an' Scotland's drouth. 

His servants humble ! 
The muckle deevil blaw ye south, 

If ye dissemble! 

Does ony great man glunch an' gloom .^ 
Speak out, an' never fash your thumb ! 
Let posts an' pensions sink or soom 

Wi' tliein wha grant 'em ; 
If honestly they canna come, 

Far better want e'm. 



In 2'ath'ring votes you were na slack; 
Now stand as tightly by your tack ; 
Ne'er claw your lug, an' fidge your back, 

An' hum an' haw ; 
But raise your arm, an' tell your crack 

Before them a'. 

* This was written before the act anent the Scotch 
Distilleries, of session 1786; for wliich Scotland and 
ilie Author return tiioir most grateful thanks- 



Paint Scotland greeting owre her thriss.o; 
Her mutchkin stoup as toom's a wliissle : 
An' d — mn'd Excisemen in a bussle. 

Seizin a Stell, 
Trimnphant crushin't like a mussel 

Or lampit shell. 



Then on the tither hand present her, 
A blackguard Smuggler right bchint her, 
An' clieck-for-chow, a chulfie Vintner, 

Colleaguing join. 
Picking her pouch as bare as winter 

Of a' kind coin 



Is there, that bears the name o' Scot, 
But feels his heart's bluid rising hot, 
To see his poor auld Mither's pot 

Thus dung in staves, 
An' plunder'd o' her hindmost groat 

By gallows knaves? 



Alas ! I'm but a nameless wight, 
Trode i' the mire clean out o' sight; 
But could I like Monlgom'ries fight, 

Or gab like Bosicell 
There's some sark-necks I wad draw tight. 

An' tie some hose well. 



God bless your Honors, can ye see't, 
The kind, auld, cantie Carlin ffreet, 
An' no get warmly to your feet, 

An' gar them hear it, 
An' tell them wi' a patriot heat. 

Ye winna bear it ! 

Some o' you nicely ken the laws, 
To round the period, an' pause, 
An' wi' rhetoric clause on clause 

To mak harangues ; 
Then echo thro' Samt Stephen's wa's 

Auld Scotland's wrangs. 

Demp.tter, a true blue Scot, I'se ^varran ; 
Thee, aith-detesting, chaste KUkerran;* 
An' that glib-gabbet Highland Baron, 

The Laird o' Graham, t 
An' ane, a chap that's d — mn'd auldfarran, 
Dundus his name. 



Ersh'ne, a spunkie Norland billie ; 
True Catnphells, Frederick an' Ilai/ ; 
An' Livingstone, the bauld Sir TVillie ; 

An' monie ithers 
Whom auld Demosthenes or Tully 

Might own for brithora. 

Arouse, my boys ! exert your mettle, 
To get auld Scotland back her kettle ; 

* Sir Adam Ferguson. E 

t The present Duke of Montrose. (1500.) 



8 

Or faith ! I'll wad my new pleugh-petlle, 
Yell sceX or lang, 

She'll teach you, wi' a reckin whittle, 
Anither sang. 



This while she's been in crankous mood, 
Her lost Militia fir'd her bluid ; 
(Deil na they never mair do guid 

Play'd her that pliskie !) 
An' now she's like to rin red-wud 

About her Wlaisky. 



An' L — d, if ance tliey pit her till't. 
Her tartan petticoat she'll kilt, 
An' dark an' pistol at her belt, 

She'll tak the streets, 
An' rin her whittle to the hilt, 

r th' first she meets ! 



For G — d sake, Sirs ! then speak her fair, 
An' straik her cannie wi' the hair, 
An' to the niuckle house repair, 

Wi' instant speed,' 
An' strive wi' a' your Wit and Lear, 

To get remead. 

Yon ill-tongu'd tinkler, Charlie Fox, 
May taunt you wi' his jeers an' mocks; 
But gie him't het, my hearty cocks ! 

E'en cowe the caddie; 
An' send him to liis dicing box 

An' sportin lady. 

Tell yon guid bluid o' auld BoconnocWs 
ril be his debt twa mashlum bonnocks, 
An' drink his health in auld JVanse Tinnoclis* 

Nine times a-week. 
If he some scheme, like tea an' winnock's. 

Wad kindly seek. 

Could he some comrmtlalion broach, 
I'll pledge my aith in guid braid Scotch, 
He need na fear their foul reproach 

Nor erudition, 
Ym mixtie-maxtie queer hotch-potch, 

The Coalition. 



Auld Scotland has a raucle tongue ; 
She's just a devil wi' a rung; 
^i' if she promise auld or young 

To tak their part, 
Tho' by the neck she should be strung, 

She'U no desert. 



An' now, ye chosen Fire-ttnd-Forlfj, 
May still your JVlither's heart support ye ; 



BURNS' POEMS. 



Then, though a Minister grow dorty. 

An' kick your place, 
Ye'll snap your fingers, poor an' hearty, 

Before his face. 



God bless your Honours a' your days, 
Wi' sowps o' kail and brats o' claise, 
In spite o' a' the thievish kaes, 

That haunt St. Jamie^ 
Your humble Poet sings an' prays 

Wlule Rab his name is 



POSTSCRIPT. 



Let half-starv'd slaves, in warmer skies 
See future wines, rich clust'ring, rise ; 
Their lot auld Scotland ne'er envies. 

But blythe and frisky. 
She eyes her freeborn, martial boys, 

Tak atr their Whisky. 



What tho' their Phoebus kinder warms. 
While fragrance blooms and beauty charms j 
When wretches range, in famish 'd swarms, 

The scented groves, 
Or hounded forth, dishonour arms 

In hungry droves. 



Their gun's a burden on their shouther 
They downa bide the stink o' powther; 
Their bauldest thought's a hank'ring swither 

To Stan' or rin. 
Till skelp — a shot — they're aff, a' throwther, 
To save their skin. 



But bring a Scotsman frae his hill. 
Clap in his cheek a Highland gill, 
Say, such is royal George^s will. 

An' there's the foe. 
He has nae thought but how to kill 

Twa at a blow. 



Nae cauld, faint-hearted doubtings teas 
him; 
Death comes, wi' fearless eye he sees him ; 
Wi' bluidy hand awelcomegies him : 

An' wlien he fa's. 
His latest draught o' breathin lea'es him 
In faint huzzas. 



Sages their solemn een may steek. 
An' raise a philosophic reek, 
And physically causes seek. 

In clime and season*, 



*A worthy old Hostess of the Aiithnr'sin Matichline, 
where he sometimes studied Politics over a glass of ' But tell me Wiiisky's name in Greei 
guid auld Scotch IMnh. I'll tell the reasojj. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



Scotland, my auW, respected Mitlier ! 
Tho' wlulos ye moislify your leather, 
Till wiiare ye sit, on craps o' heather. 

Ye tine your dam ; 
Frttdom and Whisky gang thegither I 

Tak aff your dram. 



THE HOLY FAIR.* 



A robe of seeming truth and trust 

Hid crafty Observation ; 
And secret liung, with poison'd crust. 

The dirk of Defamation : 
A mask tliat like tlie gorget show'd, 

Dye varying on the pigeon ; 
And for a mantle large and broad, 

He wrapt him in Religion. 

Hypocrisy a-la-mode. 



Upon* a simmer Sunday morn, 

When Nature's face is fair, 
I walked forth to view the com, 

An' snuff the caller air. 
The rising sun owre Galston muirs, 

Wi' glorious light was glintin ; 
The hares were liirplin down the furs, 

The lav'rocks they were chantin 

Fu' sweet that day. 

n. 

As lightsomely I glowr'd abroad. 

To see a scene sae gay, 
Three Hizzies, early at the road, 

Cam skelpin up the way ; 
Twa had manteeles o' dolefu' black, 

But ane wi' lyart lining ; 
The third, that gaed a wee a-back, 

V\'as in tlie fashion shining 

Fu' gay that day. 

m. 

The twa appear'd like sisters twin, 

In ^<;ature, form, an' claes ! 
Their visage, wither'd, lang, an' thin, 

An' sour as ony slaes : 

• ffoly Fair is a common phrase tn the West of 
Scotland for a Sacramental occasion, 
B 2 



The third cam up, hap-step-an'-lowp, 

As light as ony lambie. 
An' wi' a curchie low did stoop, 

As soon as e'er she saw me, 

Fu' kind that day. 

IV. 

Wi' bannet aff, quoth I, " Sweet lasH, 

I think ye seem to ken me ; 
I'm sure Fve seen that bomiie face, 

But yet I caima name ye." 
Quo' she, an' laughin as she spak, 

An' taks me by the hands, 
" Ye, for my sake, hae gi'en the feck 

Of a' the ten commands 

A screed some day 

V. 

"My name is Fun — your cronie dear, 

The nearest friend ye hae ; 
An' this is Superstition here, 

An' that's Hypocrisy. 
I'm gaun to ********* Holy Fair, 

To spend an hour in daffin : 
Gin ye'll go there, yon runkl'd pair, 

We will get famous laughin 

At them this day." 

VI. 

Quoth I, "With a' my heart, I'll do't: 

I'U get my Sunday's sark on 
An' meet you on the holy spot ; 

Faith, we'se hae fine remarkin !" 
Then I gaed hame at crowd ie- time 

An' soon I made me ready ; 
For roads were clad, frae side to side, 

Wi' monie a wearie body. 

In droves that ^^7 

VII. 

Here farmers gash, in ridin graith, 

Gaed hoddin by their cotters ; 
There, swankies young, in braw braid- 
claith. 

Are springin o'er the gutters. 
The lasses, skelpin barefit, thrang, 

In silks an' scarlets glitter ; 
Wi' sweet-milk cheese, in monie a whang 

An'farls bak'd wi' butter 

Fu' crump that day. 

vm. 

When by the plate we set our nose, 

Weel heaped up wi' ha'pence, 
A greedy glowr Black Bonnet throws, 

An' we maun draw our tippence. 
Then in we go to see the show. 

On ev'ry side they're gathrin. 
Some carrying dales, some chairs an' stoolSi 

An' some are busy bletlrrin 

Right loud that day. 



10 



BURNS' POEMS 



IX. 



Hero stands a sliod to fond Iho show''rs, 

An' screon ourkinim (Jcntry, 
Tlioro, racer ./r.w, an' twa-t.hroo wh-rcs, 

Are blinkin at tho (>Mt.iy. 
Ih'vv sits a raw oftiltlin jadi's, 

Wi' hcavinj;; breast and liaio nock 
An" tlioro a IniUU ol'\vul)slor huls, 

Blackguardinjr iVao K ok 

For fun tliis day. 



XIV. 



Bnt, hark ! tho tail has chanfj'dits voice j 

'rh(M*o's jJOftoo on' rosl nac lanyor : 
For a' tlio rcdljiKli^fs riso, 

Thoy oaniia sit lor anj;or. 
*■ * * * * o|)(-ii,s out liis oauld harangues. 

On praotit-o and on murals ; 
An' all' till) yodly ponr in Ihranifs, 

To yio tlio jars an' liarrols 

A hll that day. 

XV. 



Iloro soino aro tliinkin on llioir sins, 

An' some npo' their claos ; 
Ano onrs('s toot that lylM his tihins, 

Anith(>r sio-hs an' prays : 
On this liand sits a olioson swatch, 

\Vi' sorow'd up ivraoo-proud lacos ; 
On that a sot o' chaps at watch, 

TJn'ang winkin on Iho lassos 

To liiairs tliat day. 



Xf. 



O linppj' is that nnni an' hlost ! 

Nao wonder that it prido hii\i I 
Whaso ain dear lass, that ho likos host, 

Conios clinkin down liosido him ! 
^Vi' arn\ ropos'd on lluMliair hack, 

]\v swcotly docs composo him ! 
^Yhicll, hv doj;roos, slips rounil her nock, 

Au's loot' npon her hosom 

Unkcn'd tliat day. 

XII. 



Now a' tlie conjj'renation o'er, 

Is silent expectation ; 
Yor *■ * * *■ * *■ spools the holy door, 

Wi' tidinivs o'd-nm-t — n. 
Shouhl llornit; as in ancient dnj's, 

'INIanfj sons o' i\ — |n-osent him. 
The vera siyiit o' * * * "*■' *'s lace, 

'J'o's ain hot hame liad sent him 

AVi' Iright that day. 

XUI. 



Hoar liow he clears tlio inVmts o' failii, 

Wi' ratlin an' wi' tlunnpin ! 
Now meekly calm, now wild in wrath, 

lie's slampin an' he's jumpin ! 
His l(>n<)lhon"d chin, his tnrn'd np snout. 

His eldritch sipu'ol and ijestures, 
Oil how lhi>v lire tho heart devout, 

Ijke cantliaridian plasters, 

On SIC a day ! 



^^'hat si.ifnilii's his harrivi shino 

Ol'inoral |)ow'rs and reason ? 
1 lis iMii^lish style, an' fjesturo line. 

Are a' clean out o' season. 
Like Socniffs or .■liiloiiinr. 

Or some aidd pai>an Heathen, 
The moral man he does delino. 

But no'or a wortl o' tiiilh in 

Tluit's riglit tliat day. 

XVI. 



In i^nid time comes an antidote 

Afi'ainst sie poison'd nostrum ; 
For * * * *• * * '*^, frae tlio water-lit, 

Ascends Iho holy rostrum : 
See, up he's e;ot the word o' (1 — , 

An' meek an' mini has viow'd it, 
"While (.'(>iiunoii-,Si use Iku ta'on tho roadf 

An' all; an' up tho Cownale,* 

Fast, last, that day. 

XVII. 



Woo * ••* * * * *, niest, tlio Guard relieves, 

An' Orthodoxy raihles, 
Tlu>' in Iiis heart lio wool holieves. 

An' thinks it anld wives' tahlos : 
But, I'ailh I tho hirkie waiils a iManso, 

So, cumiily ho hums tliem ; 
Allho' his carnal wit an' sense 

Like lmlllins-way« o'ercomos him 
At times that ilay, 

XVIII. 

Now butt an' ben, the ChaTijjo-houso fills, 

\\'i' yitl-caii]) t'ommenlators ; 
Hero's oiyiuii' out for li'akos and ii'ills. 

An' there the pint stowp elutters ; 
AMule thick an' thrane-, an' loud an' lang, 

\\T Lotrie an' wi' Scripture, 
Thoy raise a din, that in the end. 

Is like to breed a rupture 

O' wratli that day. 

•.V streci so called, wliicli faces ilic tcnl In — 



BURNS' POEMS. 



11 



XIX. 

Leczo mo on Drink ! it. jfins iis niair 

'I'luiii oitlior School oi- Collogo: 
It kiiidios wit, it \viuik(!tis hiir. 

It punjrs us ton o' ki)owl(Miiio. 
Bo't wiiisky irill, or poiiiiy vvhccp, 

Or oiiy stroiij^or potion, 
It novor fails on drinkinir dcop, 

To kittle up our notion 

By niglit or day. 

XX. 

Tlio lads an' lassos blythely bont 

To nund baitli saul an' body, 
Sit round tlio lablo wci'l content, 

An' stcor about the toddy. 
On tiiis ano's dross, an' that ano's louk, 

Thoy'ro niakin<r observations; 
Whilo some arc co/.io i' the nouk, 

An' forniin assij^iiations, 

To moot sonio day, 

XXI. 

But now tho L — d's ain trumpet touts, 

Till a' tho liills are rairin, 
An' eohoos back return llie shouts : 

Black * * * ■■'< •■*•■ ^ is na spairin ; 
His i)iorcinfT words, liko Ilijiriiland swords, 

Divide tiio joints an' marrow ; 
His talk o' 11-11, whei-e devils dwell, 

Our vera sauls does harrow'' 

Wi' frij-ht that day. 

XXII. 

A vast, unbottom'd, boundless pit, 

Fill'd fini o' lowin bnuistatie, 
VVliaso raijin flame, an' scorchiu boat, 

Wad melt the hardest whun-stano! 
Tho hall" asleep start up vvi' I'ear, 

An' think they iiear it roarin. 
When |)resontly it does ai)p(!ar, 

'Twas but sonio neobor snorin 

Asleoj) that day. 

XXIII. 



Twad be owro lanjT a talo, to toll 

How monie stories past, 
An" how lliey crowded to the yill 

^Vhen they were a' dismist; 
How drink paeil round, in eojrs an' canps, 

Amaniv the f'urms an' benches; 
An' clieeso an' bread I'rae women's laps, 

Was dealt about in lunches. 

An' dawds that day. 



XXIV. 



• Sliakspcaic's Ilninlct. 



In comos a ffaucio ffasli Cuidvvifo, 

An' sits down by tho fire, 
Syne draws her kebhuek an' hor knife, 

Tlio lassos they are shyer. 
Tii(^auld (luidmen about the ijrncc, 

Frao side to side they bothiT, 
Till some ano by his bonnet lays, 

An' {>i'es them't like a tether, 

Fu' lan<j that day. 

XXV. 

Waosncks! for him that jiets nacs lass, 

Or lasses that hae inietliin^if ! 
Snia' need has be to say a {rrace, 

Or melvie his braw claithii);;r I 
O wives, be miiulfu', aneo yoursol. 

How boiinie lads ye wanted. 
An' dinna, for a ki^hlmck-heol. 

Lot lassos be ailVonted 

On sic a day 1 



XXVI. 



Now Clinhimhe.U, wi' rattlin tow, 

Bog'ins to jow an' croon ; 
Some swan'o-or hanio, tho best tlioy dow* 

Some wait the afternoon. 
At slaps the billies halt a blink, 

Till lasses strip their slioon : 
Wi' faith an' hope an' love an' drink, 

'I'liey're a' in famous tune. 

For crack that day 



XXVII. 



IIow monie hearts this day converts 

(T sinners and o' lasses ! 
Their hearts o' stano, g'in night are gane, 

As sntl as ony ilesh is. 
There's some are fou o' love divine; 

There's some are fou o' brandy ; 
An' monie jobs that day boifin. 

May end in lloughmafraudio 

Some ither day. 



DEATH AND DR. IIORNBOOIC 

A TRUK STdRY. 

SoMK bonks aro lies frao end to end, 
And f^oine frreat lies were never [lonn'd, 
Ev'n Ministers, thoy hae Ix^cn kenn'd 

In holy rapture, 
A rousing wind, at t'.nuis to vend, 

And nail't wi' Scrijiture 



12 



BURNS' POEMS. 



But this that I am ^aun to tell, 
Which lately on a night befel, 
Is just as truc's the Deil's in h-11 

Or Dublin city : 
That e'er he nearer comes oursel 

'S a rauckle pity 



The Clachan yill had made me canty, 

I was na fou, but just had plenty ; 

I stacher'd whyles, but yet took tent ay 

To free the ditches ; 
An' hillocks, stanes, an' bushes, kenn'd ay 

Frae ghaists an' witches. 



The rising moon began to glow'r 
The distant Cumnock hills out-owre : 
To count her horns, wi' a' my pow'r, 

I set mysel ; 
But whether she had three or four, 

1 cou'd na tell. 



I was come round about the liill, 
And toddlin down on Willie's mill. 
Setting my staft" wi' a' my skill, 

To keep me sicker • 
Tho' leeward whyles, against my will, 

I took a bicker. 



1 there wi' Something did forgather, 
That put me in an eerie swither ; 
An awfu' sithe, out-owre ae showther. 

Clear-dangling, hang ; 
A three-tae'd leister on the itlier 

Lay, large an' lang. 



Its stature seem'd lang Scotch ells twa, 
The queerest sliape that e'er I saw. 
For fient a wame it had ava ! 

And then, its shanks. 
They were as thin, as sharp an' sma' 

As cheeks o' branks. 



" Guld-een," quo' I ; " Friend I hae ye been 

mawin. 
When itlier folk are busy sawin ?"* 
It seem'd to mak a Idnd o' stan,' 

But naething spak ; 
At length, says I, " Friend, whare ye gaun. 
Will ye go back ?" 



It spak right howe, — ^" My name is Death, 
But be na fley'd." — Quoth I, " Guid faith, 
Ye're may be come to stap my breath ; 

But tent me, billie : 
I red ye weel, tak care o' skaith. 

See, there's a gully I" 



'T)i1» rencounter happened in seed-time, 1785. 



" Guidman," quo' he, " put up your whittla, 
Fm no design'd to try its mettle ; 
But if I did, I wad be kittle 

To be mislear'd, 
I wad na mind it, no, that spittle 

Out-owre my beard. 



" Weel, weel !" says I, " a bargain be't ; 
Come, gies your hand, an' sae we're greo't ; 
We'll ease our shanks an' tak a seat. 

Come, gies your news ; 
This while* ye hae been monie a gate 

At monie a house." 



" Ay, ay !" quo' he, an' shook his head, 
" It's e'en a lang, lang time indeed 
Sin' I began to nick the thread, 

An' choice the breath " 
Folk maun do something for tlieir bread, 

An' sae maun Death. 



" Sax thousand years are near hand fled 

Sin' I was to the butchmg bred. 

An' monie a scheme in vain's been laid. 

To stap or scar me ; 
Till ane Hbnitoofc'it ta'en up tlie trade, 

An' faith, he'll waur me. 



" Ye ken Jock Hornbook i' the Clachan, 
Deil mak liis king's-hood in a spleuchan ! 
He's grown sae well acquaint wi' BuchaTi\ 

An' ither chaps, 
That weans haud out their fingers laughin 

And pouk my hips. 



" See, here's a sithe, and there's a dart. 
They hae pierc'd mony a gallant heart ; 
But Doctor Hornbook, wi' his art. 

And cursed skill. 
Has made them baith not worth a f — t, 

Damn'd haet thej n. kill. 

" 'Twas but yestreen, nae farther gaeii, 

I threw a noble throw at ane ; 

Wi' less, I'm sure, I've hundreds slain ; 

But deil-ma-care. 
It just play'd dirl on the bane, 

But did nae mair. 



" Hornbook was by, wi' ready art, 
And had sae fortify 'd the part. 



* An epidemical fever was then raging In that 
country. 

t This gentleman, Dr. Hornbook, Is professionally, 
a brother of the Sovereign Order of the Ferula; but, 
by intuition and inspiration, is at once an Apothecary 
Surgeon, and Pliysidan. 

X Buchan's Domestic Medicine. t 



BURNS' POEMS. 



13 



That when I looked to my dart, 

It was sac blunt, 

Fient haet o't wad hae piercVl the heart 
Of a kail-ruat. 



" I drew my sithc in sic a fury, 
I uearhand cowpil wi' my hurry 
But yet the bauld Apolhecary 

Withstood the shock ; 
1 might as wecl hae try'd a quarry 

O' hard whin rock. 



" Ev'n them he canna get attended, 
Alto' tlicir face he ne'er had kend it. 
Just m a kail-blade, and send it. 

As soon he smells't, 
Baith their disease, and what will mend it 

At once he tells't. 



And then a' doctors' saws and whittles, 
Of a' dimensions, shapes, an' mettles, 
A' kinds o' boxes, mutfs, an' bottles, 

He's sure to hae ; 
Their Latin names as fast he rattles 

As A B C. 



" Calces o' fossils, earth, and trees ; 
True Sal-marinum o' the seas ; 
The Farina of beans and j)ease. 

He lias't in plenty ; 
Aqua-fontis, what you please, 

He can content ye. 



" Forbye some new, uncommon weapons, 

Urinus Spiritus of capons ; 

Or Mitc-liorn shavuigs, filings, scrapings, 

DistiU'd per se ; 
Sal-alkali o' Midge-tail-clippings, 

And monie mae." 



" Waes me for Johnny Geffs Hole* now," 

Quo' i, " if that the news be true ! 

His braw calf-ward whare gowans grew, 

Sae white and bonnie, 
Ivae doubt they'll rive it wi' tlie plew ; 

They'll ruin Juhnie .'" 

The creature grain'd an eldritch laugh, 
And says, " Yc need na yoke the plough, 
Kirkyards will soon bo till'd enough, 

Tak ye nae fear : 
They'll a' be trench'd wi' monie a sheugh 

In twa-tiiree year 



' Whare I kill'd ane a fair strae-death, 
by loss o' blood or want o' breath, 

* Tliet'rave-digger 



This night I'm free to tak my aith. 

That Hornbook''s skill 

Has clad a score i' their last claith, 

By drap an' pill 

" An honest Wabster to his trade, 

Whase wife's twa nieves were scarce wee 

bred. 
Gat tippcnce-worth to mend her head, 

When it was sair ; 
The wife slade caimic to her bed. 

But ne'er spak mair 

" A kintra Laird had ta'en the batts, 
Or some curmurring in his guts, 
His only son for Hornbook sets. 

An' pays him well. 
The lad, for twa guid gimmer pets. 

Was laird hhnsel. 

" A bonnie lass, ye kend her name. 

Some ill-brewn drink had hov'd her wamc : 

She trusts hersel, to hide the shame. 

In Homboofs care ; 
Horn sent her affto her lang hame, 

To hide it there. 

" Tliat's just a swatch o' Hombook''s way ; 
Tlius goes he on from day to day, 
Thus does he poison, kill, an' slay, 

An's weel paid for't ; 
Yet stops me o' my lawfu' prey, 

Wi' his d-mn'd dirt • 



" But, hark ! I'll tell you of a plot, 
Tho' dinna ye be speaking o't ; 
I'll nail the self-conceited Scot, 

As dead's a lierriu : 
Niest time we meet, I'll wad a groat, 

He gets liis fairin '," 

But just as he began to tell. 

The auld kirk-hammer strak the bell 

Some wee short hour ayont the twal, 

Wliich rais'd us baitli ! 
I took the way that pleas'd mysel 

And sae did Death. 



THE BRIGS OF AYR, 



INSCRIBED TO J. B*********,Esa. AYR. 

The simple Bard, rough at the rustic plough, 
Learning his tuneful trade from every bough ; 
The chanting linnet, or the mellow thrush. 
Hailing the settinsr sun, sweet, in thJ green 
thorn bush ; 



14 



BURNS' POEMS. 



The soaring lark, the perching red-breast 

shrill, 
Or deep-ton"d, plovers, gray, wild-wliistling 

o'er the hill ; 
Shall he, nurst in the peasant's lowly shed, 
To hardy Independence bravely bred. 
By early Poverty to hardship steel'd, 
And trained to arms in stern Misfortune's field, 
Shall he be guilty of their hireling crimes. 
The servile mercenary Swiss of rhymes ? 
Or labour hard the panegyric close, 
With all the venal soul of dedicatmg Prose ? 
No ! though his artless strains he rudely sings, 
And throws liis hand uncoutlily o'er the 

strings, 
He glows with all the spirit of the Bard, 
Fame, honest fame, his great, his dear reward. 
Still, if some Patron's gen'rous care lie trace, 
Skill'd in the secret, to bestow with grace ; 
When B ********* befriends his hmnble 

name. 
And hands the rustic stranger up to fame, 
With heart-felt throes his grateful bosom 

swells. 
The godlike bliss, to give, alone excels. 



'Twas when the stacks get on their winter- 
hap, 
And thack and rape secure the toil won-crap ; 
Potatoe-bings are snugged up frae skaith 
Of coming Winter's biting, frosty breath ; 
The bees, rejoicing o'er tlieir summer toils, 
Unnumber'd buds an' flowers' delicious spoils, 
Seal'd up with iiugal care in massive waxen 

piles. 
Are doom'd by man, that tyrant o'er the weak, 
The death o' devils smoor'd wi' brimstone 

reek : 
The thundering guns are heard on every side. 
The wounded coveys, reeling, scatter wide ; 
The feather'd field-mates, bound by Nature's 

tie. 
Sires, mothers, children, in one carnage lie : 
(What warm, poetic heart, but inly bleeds, 
And execrates man's savage, ruthless deeds !) 
Nae mair the flower in field or meadow 

springs ; 
Nae mair the grove with airy concert rings, 
Except perhaps the Robin's wliistling glee, 
Proud o' the height o' some bit half-lang tree : 
The hoary morns precede the sunny days, 
Mild, cahn, serene, wide spreads the noon-tide 

blaze. 
While thick the gossamour waves wanton in 

the rays. 
'Twas in that season, when a simple bard, 
Unknown and poor, simplicity's reward ; 
Ae night, within the ancient brugh o? Ayr 
By whim insplr'd, or haply prest wi' care ; 
He left his bed, and took his wayward route. 
And down by Simpsons* wheel'd the left 

about : 

• A noted tavern at the Auld Brig end. 



(Whether impell'd by all-directing Fate, 

To witness what I after shall narrate ; 

Or whether, rapt in meditation high. 

He wander'd out he knew not where not 

why :) 
The drowsy Dungeon-dock* had nnmber'd two, 
And Wallace Tower* had sworn the fact wa3 

true . 
The tide-swoln Firth with sullen sounding 

roar, 
Tlirough the still night dash'd hoarse along the 

shore : 
All else was hush'd as Nature's closed e'e ; 
The silent moon shone high o'er tower and 

tree : 
The chilly frost, beneath the silver beam. 
Crept, gently crusting, o'er tiie glittermg 

stream. — 
When, lo 1 on either hand the hst'ning Bard, 
The clanging sugh of whistling wings ia 

heard ; 
Two dusky fornts dart thro' the midnight air. 
Swift as the Gos\ drives on the whcehng 

hare ; 
Ane on tli' Aidd Brig his airy shape uprears, 
The ither flutters o'er the rising piers : 
Our warlock Rhymer instantly descry'd 
The Sprites tliat owre the Brigs of Ayr pre- 
side. 
(That Bards are second-sighted is nae joke, 
And ken the lingo of the sp'ritual fo'k ; 
Fays, Spunkies, Kelpies, a', they can explain 

them,) 
And ev'n the very deils they brawly ken 

them.) 
Auld Brig apjiear'd of ancient Pictish race^ 
The vera wrinkles Gothic in his face 
He seem'd as he wi' Time had warstl'd lang, 
Yet tcughly dourc, he bade an unco bang. 
J^cw Brig was buskit in a braw new coat, 
That he, at Lonon, frae ane Adams, got ; 
In's hand five taper staves as smooth's a 

bead, 
Wi' virls and whirlygigmns at the head. 
The Goth was stalking round with anxious 

search. 
Spying the time-worn flaws in ev'ry arch ; 
It chanc'd his new-come neebor took his e'ei 
And e'en a vex'd and angry heart liad he ! 
Wi' thieveless sneer to see his modish mien, 
He, down the water, gies liim this guideen :— 



AULD BRIG. 



I doubt na, frien', ye'll think ye 're nae sheep 

shank, 
Ance ye were streelut o'er frae bank to bank* 
But gin ye be a brig as auld as me, 
Tho' faith that day, I doubt, ye'll never see 



* The two steeples. 
tThe gos-hawk, or falcon. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



16 



Tl:er» 11 be, if that date come, I'll wad a bod- 

dle. 
Some fewer whigmeleerics in your noddle. 

NEW BRIG. 

A"ld Vandal, ye but show your little mense, 
Just much about it wi' your scanty sense ; 
"VVill your poor, narrow foot-path of a street. 
Where twa wheel-barrows tremble when they 

meet, 
Your ruin'd, formless bulk o' stane an' lime, 
Compare \yi' bomiie Bri^s o' modern time ? 
Tliere's men o' taste would tak the Ducal- 

slream,* 
Tlio' they should cast the very sark an swim, 
Lre they would grate their feelings wi' the 

view 
Of sic an ugly Gothic hulk as you. 

AULD BRIG. 

Conceited gowk ! pufT'd up wi' windy 
pride I 
This monie a year I've stood the flood an' tide ; 
And tho' wi' crazy eild Tm sair forfaini, 
I'll be a Brig, when ye're a shapeless cairn ! 
As yet ye little knn about the matter, 
But twa-three winters will inform you better, 
VVJicn heavy, dark, continued, a'-day rains, 
V^'i' deepening deluges o'erflow the plains ; 
vVhen from the hills where springs the brawl- 
ing' Coil, 
Or stately Lugar's mossy fountains boil. 
Or where tlic Greenock winds his rnoorland 

course. 
Or haunted Garpalf draws his feeble source, 
Arous'd by blust'ring winds an' spotting 

thowes. 
In mony a torrent down his sna-broo rowes ; 
Wiiile crashing ice. borne on the roaring speat, 
Sweeps dams, an' mills, an' brigs, a' to the 

gate ; 
And from GknbuckA. dowm to the Rotton- 

Auld Af/r is just one lengthen'd, tumbling sea ; 
Tlien down ye'll hurl, dcil nor ye never rise ! 
And dash the gumlie jaups up to the pouring 

skieK : 
A lesson sadly teaching, to your cost, 
riiat Arcliitecture's noble art is lost ! 

NEW BRIG. 

Fine Jlrchileclure, trowth, I needs must say't 
o't ! 
The L — d bo thankit that we've tint the gate 
o't! ^ 

* A notrd ford, just above the Auld Brig. 

t 'i'lie banks oT Oarpal IVatcr is one of the few 
pUicPs in the West of Scotland, where those fancy- 
scaring beings, known by the name of Gkaists, still 
continue pertinaciously to inhabit. 

» The source of the river Ayr. 

$ A sniall landing place above the large key. 



Gaunt, ghastly, ghaist-alluring edifices, 
Hatiging with tlireat'ning jut, like precipices; 
O'er arching, mouldy, glooin-ins])iring coves 
Su])porting roofs fantastic, stony groves : 
Wuidows and doors, in nameless sculpture 

drcst, 
With order, symmetry, or taste unblest ; 
Forms like some bedlam statuary's dream, 
The craz'd creations of misguided whim; 
Forms might be worshipp'd on the bended 

knee, 
And still tlie second dread command be free, 
Their likeness is not foimd on earth, in air, or 

sea. 
Mansions that would disgrace the building 

taste 
Of any mason, reptile, bird, or beast; 
Fit only for a doited Monkish race, 
Or frosty maids forsworn the dear embrace. 
Or cuifs of later times, wha held the notion 
That sullen gloom was sterling true devotion; 
Fancies that our guid Brugh denies protection, 
And soon may they expire, unblest with re- 
surrection ! 

AULD BRIG. 

O ye, my dear-remember'd, ancient yealmgs, 
Were ye but here to share my wounded feel- 
ings ! 
Ye worthy Proveses, an' mony a Bailie, 
Wha in the paths o' righteousness did toil ay ; 
Ye dainty Deacons, and ye douce Conveeners^ 
To whom our moderns are but causey-clean- 
ers ; 
Ye godly Councils wha hae blest this town; 
Ye godly Brethren of the sacred gown, 
Wha meekly gie your hurdies to the smiters ; 
And (what would now be strange) ye godly 

Writers : 
A' ye douce folk I've borne aboon the broo, 
Were ye but here, what would ye say or do ? 
How would your spirits groan in deep vex- 
ation, 
To see each melancholy alteration ; 
And, agonizing, curse the time and place 
When ye begat the base, degen'rate race ! 
Nae langer Rev'rend Men, their country's 

glory, 
In plain braid Scots hold forth a plain braid 

story ! 
Nae langer thrifty Citizens, an' douce. 
Meet owre a pint, or in the Council-house ; 
But staumrel, corky-headed, graceless Gentry, 
The hcrryment and ruin of the country; 
Men, three-parts made by Tailors and by Bar- 
bers, 
Wlia waste your wcU-hain'd gear on d — Anew 
Brills and Harbours ! 



NEW BRIG. 

Now hand you there I for faith j'e'vo said 
enough. 
And muckle mair than ye can mak to through 



16 



BURNS' POEMS. 



As for your priesthood, I shall say but little, 
Corbies and Clergi/ are a shot right kittle : 
But under favour o' your lang^er beard, 
Abuse o' Magistrates might weel be spar'd : 
To liken them to your auld-warld squad, 
I must needs say, comparisons are odd. 
In ^^i/r. Wag-wits nae mair can hae a handle 
To mouth " a Citizen,'" a term o' scandal : 
Nae mair the Council waddles down the 

street, 
In all the pomp of ignorant conceit ; 
Men wha grew wise priggin owre hops an' 

raisins. 
Or gather'd hbVal views in Bonds and Seisms. 
If haply Knov/ledge, on a random tramp. 
Had shor'd them with a glimmer of his lamp, 
And would to Common-sense, for once be- 
tray 'd them. 
Plain, dull Stupidity stept kindly in to aid 
them. 



What farther clishmaclaver might been 

said. 
What bloody wars, if Sprites had blood to 

shed, 
No man can tell ; but all before their sight, 
A fairy train appeared in order bright : 
Adown the glittering stream they featly 

danc'd ; 
Bright to the moon their various dresses 

glanc'd : - 
They footed o'er the watry glass so neat. 
The infant ice scarce bent beneath their feet : 
Wliile arts of Minstrelsy among them rung. 
And soul-ennobling Bards heroic ditties sung. 
O had M'Lauchlan,* thairm-inspiring Sage, 
Been there to hear this heavenly band engage. 
When thro' liis dear Strathspeys they bore with 

Highland rage, 
Or when they struck old Scotia's melting airs. 
The lover's raptur'd joys or bleeding cares ; 
How would his Highland lug been nobler fir'd. 
And ev'n liis matchless iiand with finer touch 

inspir'd ! 
No guess could tell what instrument appear'd. 
But all the soul of Music's self was heard ; 
Harmonious concert rung in every part, 
Wliile simple melody pour'd moving on the 

heart. 



TIio Genius of tlie Stream in front appears, 
A venerable Chief advanc'd in years; 
His hoary head with water-lilies crown'd. 
His manly leg witJi garter tangle bound. 
Next came the loveliest pair in all the ring. 
Sweet Female Beauty hand in hand with 

SpriniT ; 
Tlien, crown'd with flow'ry hay, came rural 

Joy, 
And Summer, with his fervid-beaming eye : 



* A well known performer of Scottish music on the 
violin. 



All-cheering Plenty, with her flowing horn. 
Led yellow Autumn wreath'd with nodding 

com; 
Then Winter's time-bleach'd locks did hoary 

show. 
By Hospitality with cloudless brow. 
Next follow'd Courage with his martial stride, 
From where the Feat wild- woody coverts hide ; 
Benevolence, with mild, benignant air, 
A female form, came from the tow'rs of Stair : 
Learning and Worth in equal measures trode 
From simple Catrine, their long-lov'd abode : 
Last, white-rob'd Peace, crown'd with a hazel 

wreath. 
To rustic Agriculture did bequeath 
The broken iron instruments of death ; 
At sight of whom our Sprites forgat their 

kindling wrath. 



THE ORDINATION. 



For sense they little owe to Frugal Heaven.— 
To please the Mob they liide the little given. 



I. 



Kilmarnock Wabsters fidge an' claw 

An' pour your creeshie nations ; 
An' ye wha leather rax an' draw, 

Of a' denominations, 
Swith to tiie Laigh Kirk, ane an' a' 

An' there tak up your stations ; 
Then aff to B-gb — '* in a raw, 

An' pour divine libations 

For joy this day 



n. 



Curst Common Sense that imp o' li-ll, 

Cam in wi' Maggie Lauder ;* 
But O ******* aft made her yell, 

An' R =*=**=*= * sair misca'd her; 
This day M' ***** * * takes the flail, 

And he's the boy will blaud iter I 
He'll clap a shangun on lier tail, 

An' set the bairns to daub her 
Wi' dirt tliis day. 

IIL 

Mak haste an' turn king David owre, 
An' lilt wi' holy clangor ; 

* AlliuliiictoMscnffinEtliaMad which was maileoii the 
aitiiii~«:itiii of Uk: late llevereiid and wortiiy ^Ir L. to 
llic I.iiiuh Kiik 



BURNS' POEMS. 



17 



O' doable verse come g'le us four, 

An' skirl up tlio Raniror: 
This (ky the kirk kicks up a stourc, 

Nae niiiir the knaves shall wrang her, 
For Heresy is in her pow'r, 

An' gloriously shall whaiiff her 

Wi' pith this day. 

IV. 



Come, let a proper text be read, 

An' touch it aff wi' vigour, 
How orraceless Ham* leugh at his Dad, 

Which made Canaan a niger ; 
Or Phinrasf drove the murdering blade, 

Wi' wh-re-abhorring rigour ; 
Or Zipporah, + the scauldin jade, 

Was like a bluidy tiger 

"r th' inn that day. 



There, try his mettle on the creed. 

And bind him down wi' caution, 
That Slipe7id is a carnal weed 

He taks but for the fashioji ; 
An" gie him o'er the flock, to feed, 

And punish each transgression ; 
Esj)ecial, raim tliat cross the breed, 

Gie them sufficient threshin, 

Spare them nae ( 

VI. 



Now auld Kilmarnock cock thy tail, 

And toss thy horns fu' canty ; 
Nae mair thou'lt rowte out-owre the dale. 

Because thy pasture's scanty ; 
For lapfu's large o' gospel kail 

Shall fill thy crib in plenty, 
An' runts o' grace the pick an' wale. 

No gi'en by way o' dainty. 

But ilka day. 

VII. 



Nae mair Ijy BaheVs streams we'll weep, 

To think upon our Zion; 
And hing our fiddles up to sleep, 

Like baby-clouts a-diyin : 
Come, screw the pegs wi' tunefu' cheep. 

And o'er the thainns be trytn ; 
Oil, rare ! to see our elbucks wheep. 

An' a' like lamb-tails flyin 

Fu' fast this day 1 

» Genesis, chap ix. 22. fNumberg, ch. xxv. ver. 
t Exodus, ch. iy. ver. 25. 



vm. 



Lang Patronage^ wi' rod o' aim, 

Has slior'd the Kirk's undoiu, 
As lately F-7iw-ck sair forfairn, 

Has proven to its ruin : 
Our Patron, honest man ! Glencaim^ 

He saw mischief was brewin ; 
And like a godly elect bairn. 

He's wal'd us out a true ane. 

And sound tliis day. 

IX. 

Now R******* harangue nae mair, 

But steck your gab for ever : 
Or try the wicked town of A**, 

For there they'll think you clever j 
Or, nae reflection on your lear, 

Ye niay commence a Shaver • 
Or to the Jf-th-rt-n repair, 

And turn a Carpet-weaver 

Afl;-hand this day. 

X. 

M * * * * * and you were just a match, 

We never had sic twa drones : 
Auld Hornie did the Laigh Kirk watch, 

Just like a winkin baudrons ; 
And ay' he catch'd the tither wretch, 

To fry them in his caudrons ; 
But now his honour maun detach, 

Wi' a' liis brimstone squadrons. 
Fast, fast this day. 

XI. 

See, see auld Orthodoxy's faes, 

She's swingein thro' the city : 
Hark, how the nine-tail'd cat she plays 

I vow it's unco pretty : 
There, Learning, with his Greelush facfc, 

Grunts out some Latin ditty ; 
And Common Sense is gaun, she says. 

To mak to Jamie Beattie 

Her 'plaint this day. 

Xll. 

But there's Mortality liimsel, 

Embracing all opinions ; 
Hear, how he gies the tither yell, 

Between his twa companions ; 
See, how she peels the skin an' fell. 

As ane were peelin onions ! 
Now there — they're packed afl"to hell 

And banish 'd our dominions. 

Henceforth this day. 



t8 



BURNS' POEMS. 



XIIT. 



O happy day ! rejoice, rejoice ! 

Come bouse about the porter I 
Morality's demure decoys 

Shall liere nae mair tiiid quarter : 

That Heresy can torture ; 
Tliey'll gie her on a rape and hoyse 
And cow her measure shorter 

By th' head some day, 

XIV. 

Come, bring tlie titiier mutchkin in, 

And here's, for a conclusion, 
To every jYew Light* mother's son, 

From this time forth. Confusion : 
If mair they deave us with their din, 

Or Patronage intrusion, 
We'll light a spunk, and, ev'ry skin. 

We'll rin them afF in fusion 

Like oil, some day. 



THE CALF. 



TO THE REV. MR. 

On Ilia Text, Malaclii, ch. iv. ver. 2. " And they 
Ehall go forth, and grow up, like calves of the stall " 

Right, Sir ! your text I'll prove it true, 

Though Heretics may laugh ; 
For instance ; there's yoursel just now, 

God knows, an unco Calf.' 

And should some Patron be so kind. 

As ble^s you wi' a kirk, 
I doubt ns., Sir, but then we'll find, 

Ye 're still as great a St irk. 

But, if the Lover's raptur'd hour 

Shall ever be your lot, 
Forbid it, ev'ry heavenly Power, 

You e'er should be a Slot .' 

Tho', when some kind connubial Dear, 

Your but-and-ben adorns, 
The like lias been that you may wear 

A noble head of horns. 

And in your lug most reverend Jawes, 

To hear you roar and rowte, 
Few men o' sense will doubt your claims 

To rank aHian<>- the nuwle. 



*JVew Li^^ht is a cant phrase in the West of Scotland, 
for those ruiigiotis opinions which Dr. Taylor of Nor- 
wich lias derendcd bo stieimously. 



And when ye're number'd wi' the dead, 

Below a grassy hillock, 
Wi' justice they may mark your head — 
. " Here lies a famous Bultock .'" 



ADDRESS TO THE DEIL. 



O Prince ! O Chief of many throned Powers, 
That led 111' embattled Seraphim to war. 

Milton. 



O THOU ! whatever title suit thee, 
Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie, 
Wha in yon cavern grim an' sootie, 

Closed under hatches, 
Spairges about the brunstane cootie, 

To scaud poor wreldies. 

Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee. 
An' let poor damned bodies be ; 
I'm sure sma' pleasure it can gie. 

E'en to a deil, 
To skelp an' scaud poor dogs like me. 

An' hear us squeel ! 

Great is thy pow'r, an' great thy fame ; 
Far kcnd and noted is thy name ; 
An' tho' yon lowin heugh's thy hame. 

Thou travels far ; 
An' faith ! thou's neither lag nor lame, 

Nor blate nor scaur. 

Whyles, ranging like a roarln lion, 
For prey, a' holes an' corners tryin ; 
Whyles on the strong-wing'd temjiest flyin, 

Tirling the kirks ; 
Whyles, in the human bosom pryin, 

Unseen thou lurks. 

I've heard my reverend Grannie say. 
In lanely glens ye like to stray ; 
Or where auld-ruin'd castles, gra}', 

Nod to the moon. 
Ye fright the nightly wand'rcr's way, 

Wi' eldritch croon. 



Wlien twilight did my Grannie summon 
To say her prayers, douce, honest woman . 
Aft yont the dyke she's heard you buniniin, 

Wi' eerie drone ; 
Or, rustlin, thro' the boortrecs comin, 
Wi' heavy groan. 

Ae dreary, windy, winter niffht, 
The stars shot down wi' sldentin light, 



BURNS' POEMS. 



t» 



Wi' you, mysel, I gat a fright, 

Aynnl the lough ; 

Ye, like a rash-bush, .stooil in sii;-lit, 

Wi' waving sugh. 



The cudgel in my nieve did shnke, 
Eacli bristrd hair stood like a stake, 
When wi' an eldritch, stour, quaick — quaick- 

Ainang the springs, 
Awa ye squatter'd, like a drake. 

On whistlin"' wings. 



Let warlocks grim, an' wither'd hags. 
Tell how wi' you on ragweed nags 
They skim the muirs, an' dizzy crags, 

Wi' wicked speed ; 
And in kirk yards renew their leagues, 

Owre howkit dead. 



Thence kintra wives, wi' toil an' pain, 
May plunge an' plunge the kirn in vain; 
For, oh ! the yellow treasure's ta'en 

By witching skill ; 
An' dawtit, twal-pint Hawkie''s gaen 

As yell's the Bill. 



Thence mystic knots mak great abuse, 
On young Guidnian, fond, keen, an' crouse ; 
When the best wark-lumc i' the house, 

By cantrip wit, 
Is instant made no worse a louse. 

Just at the bit. 



When thowcs dissolve the snawy hoord, 
An' float the jinglin icy-boord. 
Then JValer-kelpks haunt the foord. 

By your direction, 
An' nighted Trav'llers are allur'd 

To their destruction. 



An' aft your moss-traversing Spnnktes 
Decoy the wiglit that late an' drunk is : 
The bleezm, curst, mischievous monkeys 

Delude his eyes. 
Till in some miry slough he sunk is. 

Ne'er niair to rise. 



When Masons'' mystic word an' grip 
In storms an' tempests raise you u]). 
Some cock or cat your rage maun stop. 
Or, strange to tell'. 
The voungest Brother ye wad whip 

Aff straught to hell 1 



Lang syne, in Kderi's bonnie yard. 
When youliifu' lovers first were pair'd, 
An' all the soul of love they shar'd, 

The raptur'd hour, 
Sweet on the fragrant, flow'ry swaird 

In shady bow'r : 



Then you, ye auld, snic-drawing dog ' 
Ye came to Paradise incog. 
An' play'd on man a cursed brogue, 

(Black be your fa'! 
An' gied the infant warld a shog, 

'Maist ruin'd a' 



D'ye mind that day, when in a bizz, 
Wi' reekit duds, an' reestit gizz. 
Ye did present your smoutie phiz, 

'Mang belter fo'k, 
An' sklented on the man of Uss 

Your spitefu' joke? 



An' how ye gat him i' your thrall, 
An' brak him out o' house an' hall. 
While scabs an' blotches did him gall, 

Wi' bitter claw. 
An' lows'd his ill-tongu'd, wicked Scawl, 

Was warst ava? 



But a' your doings to rehearse, 
Your wily snares an' fechtin fierce, 
Sin' that day Micliael* did you pierce, 

Down to this time, 
Wad ding a' Lallan tongue, or Erse, 

In prose or rhyme. 

An' now, auld Cloofs, I ken ye're tliinkin 
A certain Bardie's rantin, drinkin. 
Some luckless hour will send him linkin. 

To your black pit; 
But, faith I he'll tiu-n a corner jiiikin. 

An' cheat you yet. 

But, fare you weel, auld Kickie-ben ! 
O wad ye tak a thought an' men' I 
Ye aiblins might — -I dinna ken — 

Still hae a jtefce — ■ 
I'm wae to think upo' yon den, 

Ev'n for your sake : 



DEATH AND DYING WORDS 

OF 

POOR MAILIE, 
THE AUTHOR'S ONLY PET YOWT!. 

AN UNCO MOURN FU' TALE 

As MaiUe, an' her lambs thegither 
Were ae day nibbling on the tether. 
Upon her cloot she coost a hitch. 
An' owre she warsl'd in the ditch. 

• Vide Milton, Book VI. 



20 

There, groaning, dying she did lie, 
When Hughoc" he cam doytin by. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



Wi' glowrin een, an' hftcd han's, 
Poor Hughoc Uke a statue stan's ; 
He saw her days were near-liand ended. 
But, waes my heart ! he could na mend it ! 
He gaped wide, but naething spak 1 
At length Poor Maille silence brak. 



" O thou, whase lamentable face 
Appears to inouni my woefu' case ' 
My di/ing icords attentive hear, 
An' bear them to my master dear, 

" Tell him, if e'er again he keep, 
As muckle gear as buy a sheep, 
O, bid him never tie tlieni mair 
Wi' wicked strings o' hemp or hair ! 
But ca' them out to park or hill, 
An' let them wander at their will ; 
So may his ilock increase, an' grow 
To scores o' Iambs, an' packs o' woo' 1 

" Tell him, he was a master kin', 
An' ay was guid to me and mine ; 
An' now my dying charge I gie him. 
My helpless lambs I trust them wi' him. 

" O, bid him, save their harmless lives, 
Frae dogs, an' tods, an' butchers' knives 1 
But gie them guid cow-milk their fill, 
Till they be fit" to fend themsel : 
An' tent thorn duly, e'en an' morn, 
W teats o' hay au' rips o' corn. 



" An' may they never learn the gaets 
Of ithcr vile wanrestfu' prls .' 
To slink thrci' slaps, an' reave an' steal, 
At stacks o' pease, or stocks o' kail. 
So may they, like their great Forbears, 
For monie a year come thro' the sheers : 
So wives will gie them bits o' bread. 
An' bairns greet for them when they're dead. 

" My poor fnop-Iamh, my son an' heir, 
O, bid him breed him up wi' care I 
An', if he five to be a beast. 
To pit some bavins in iiis breast I 
An' warn him, what I winna name, 
To stay content wi' yowes at hame ; 
An' no to rin an' wear his cloots. 
Like ither monseless, graceless brutes. 

" An, niest my i/oivie, silly thing, 
Gudo keep thee frae a tether string'. 
O, may thou ne er forgather up 
Wi' ony blastit, moorland toop ; 



.\ neebor herd callan. 



But ay keep mind to moop an' mell, 
Wi' sheep o' credit like thysel I 

" And now, my bairns, wi' my last breath, 
I lea'e my blessin wi' you baith : 
An' when you think upo' your Mither, 
Mind to be kin' to ane anither. 

" Now, honest Hughoc, dinna fail, 
To tell my master a' my tale ; 
An' bid him burn this cursed tether, 
An', for thy pains, thou'se get my blather." 

This said, poor Mailie turn'd her head, 
An' clos'd her e'en amang the dead. 



POOR MAILIE'S ELEGY. 

Lament in rhyme, lament in prose, 
Wi' saut tears trickling down your nose ; 
Our bardie's fate is at a close, 

Past a' remead ; 
The last sad cape-stane of his woes : 

Poor J\Iailie's dead ! 

It's no the loss o' warl's gear, 
That could sae bitter draw the tear 
Or mak our bardie, dowie, wear 

The mourning weed 
He's lost a friend and neebor dear. 

In Mailie dead. 

Thro a' the town she trolted by him ; 
A lang half-mile she could descry him ; 
Wi' kindly bleat, when she did spy him, 

She ran wi' speed : 
A friend mair faithfu' ne'er cam nigh him. 

Than Mailie dead, 

I wat she was a sheep o' sense. 
An' could behave hersel wi' mense : 
I'll say't, she never brak a fence, 

Thro' tiiievish greed. 
Our bardic, lanely, kee])s the spence 

Sin' JVJaih'e's dead. 

Or, if he wanders up the howe. 
Her living image in her yove, 
Comes bleating to hun, owre the knowe, 

For bits o' bread ; 
An' down the briny pearls' rowe 

For Mailie dead. 

She was nae get o' moorland tips, 
Wi' tawted ket, an hairy hips ; 
For her forbears were l)rought in ships 

Frae yont the Tweed 
A bonnier_^ec,5/i ne'er cross'd the clips 

Than Mailie dead. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



21 



Wae worth the man wha first did shape 
That vile, wanchaiicie thinjf— « rape ! 
I inaks guid fellows girn an' gape, 

Wi' cliokin dread ; 
An' Robins boiuiet wave wi' crape, 

For Mailie dead. 

O, a' ye bards on bonnie Doon I 
An" wha on ^^;/r your chanters tune ! 
Come, join the niclancholious croon 

O' Robhi^s reed I 
His heart will never get aboon ! 

His Mailie dead. 



TO J. S****. 



Frienriship ! mysterious cement of the soul ! 
Sweet'ner of lilV, ami solder of society ! 
I owe llree much. 



Blair. 



Dear S****, the slccst, paukie thief, 
That e'er attempted stealth or ricf, 
Ye surely hae some warlock-breef 

Owre human hearts ; 
For ne'er a bosom yet was prief 

Against your arts. 

For me, I swear by sun an' moon, 
And ev'ry star that blinks aboon, 
Ye've cost me twenty pair o' shoon 

Just gaun to see you ; 
And ev'ry ither pair that's done, 

Wair ta'en I'm wi' you. 

That auld, capricious carlin. Nature, 
To mak amends lor scrimpit stature. 
She's turn'd you aff, a human creature 
On hcrjirsl plan, 
And in her freaks, on ev'ry feature, 

She's wrote, the Man. 

Just now Iv'e ta'en the fit o' rhyme, 
My barmie noddle's working prime 
My fancy yerkit up sublime 

Wi' hasty summon : 
Hae 3'e a leisure-moment's time 

To hear what's comin ? 

Some rhyme, a neebor's name to lash ; 
Some rhyme vain thought 1) for needfu' cash 
Some rhyme to court tlie kintra clash, 

An' raise a din ; 
For me, an aim I never fash ; 

I rhyme for fun 



The star that rules my luckless lot, 
Has fated me the russet coat. 
An' dainn'd my fortune to the groat ; 

But in requit, 
Has blcss'd me wi' a random shot 

O' kintra wit. 



This while my notion's ta'en a sklent, 
To try my fate in guid black prmt ; 
But still the mair I'm that way bent, 

Something cries, " Hoolie . 
I red you, honest man, tak tent ! 

Ye'll shaw your folly. 



" There's ither poets, much your betters. 
Far seen in Greek, deep men o' letters, 
Hae thought they had ensur'd their debtors, 

A' future ages ; 
Now moths deform in shapeless tetters, 

Their imknown pages." 



Then fareweel hopes o' laurel-boughs. 
To garland my poetic brows ! 
Henceforth I'll rove where busy ploughs 

Are whistling thrang, 
An' teach the lanely heights an' howes 

My rustic sang. 



I'll wander on, with tcntless heed 
How never-halting moments speed. 
Till fate shall snap the brittle tlu-cad 

Then, all unknown, 
I'll lay me with the inglorious dead. 

Forgot and gone . 



But wliy o' death begin a tale ? 
Just now we're hving sound and hale. 
Then top and maintop crowd the sail. 

Heave care o'er sid^ ! 
And large, before enjoyment's gale. 

Let's tak the tide. 



This life, sae far's I understand. 
Is a' enchanted, fairy land. 
Where pleasure is the magic wand. 

That wielded right, 
Maks hours, like minutes, hand in hand, 
Dance by fu' light. 



The magic-wand then let us wield ; 
For ance that five-an'-forty's spccl'd, 
See crazy, weary, joyless eild, 

Wi' wrinkl d face. 
Comes hostin, hirplin owre the field, 

Wi' creepin pace. 

'Wlien ance /i/e's day draws near the gloamin, 
Then fareweel vacant careless ro"^nin ; 



22 



BURNS' POEMS. 



An' farewecl chccrfu' tankards foamin, 
An' social noise ; 

An' fareweel, dear, deluding woman, 
The joy of joys I 



O Life ! how pleasant in thy morning, 
Young Fancy's rays the hills adorning I 
Cold-pausing Caution's lesson scorning, 

Wo frisk away, 
Like school-boys, at th' exj>ected warning. 

To joy and play. 



We wander there, we wander here, 
We eye the rose upon the brier, 
Unmindful that the thorn is near. 

Among the leaves ; 
And though the puny wound appear. 

Short while it grieves. 



Some, lucky, find a flow'ry spot, 
For which they never toil'd nor swat ; 
They drink the sweet, and cat the fat, 

But care or pain ; 
And, haply, eye tlie barren hut 

With hiffh disdain. 



With steady aim, some fortune chase ; 
Keen Hope does every sinew brace ; 
Thro' fair, thro' foul, they urge the race. 
And seize the prey : 
Then cannie, in some cozie place. 

They close the dai/. 



And otliers, like your humble servan'. 
Poor wights 1 nae rules nor roads observin ; 
To right or left, eternal swervin. 

They zig-zag on ; 

Till curst with age, obscure an' starvin. 

They aften groan. 



Alas '. what bitter toil an' straining— 
Bui truce with peevish, poor complaining ! 
Is fortune's fickle Luna waning ? 

E'en let her gang ! 
Beneath what light she has remaining, 
Let's smg our sang. 



My pen I here fling to the door. 
And kneel, " Ye Powers 1" and warm implore, 
" The' I should wander terra o'er, 

In all her climes, 
Grant me but tliis, I ask no more. 

Ay rowth o' rhymes. 



" Gie dreeping roasts to kintra lairds, 
Till icicles hing frae their beards; 



Gie fine braw claes to fine life-guards, 

And maids of honour 

And yill an' whisky gie to cairds. 

Until they sconner. 



" A title, Dempster merits it ; 
A garter gie to IVillie Pitt ; 
Gie wealth to some be-ledger'd cit. 

In cent, per cent. 
But gie me real, stcrlmg wit. 

And I'm content. 



" While ye are pleas'd to keep me hale 
I'll sit down o'er my scanty meal, 
Be't water-brose, or musHn-kait, 

Wi' cheerfu' face, 
As lang's the muses dinna fail 

To say the grace." 



An anxious e'e I never throws 
Belunt my lug, or by my nose ; 
I jouk beneath misfortune's blows 

As weel's I may ; 
Sworn foe to sorrow, care, and prose, 

I rhyme away. 



O 3'e douce folk, that live by rule. 
Grave, tideless-blooded, calm and cool, 
Compar'd wi' you — O fool ! fool ! fool 

How much unlike I 
Your hearts are just a standing pool. 

Your lives, a dyke! 



Hae hair-brain'd, sentimental traces 
In your unletter'd, nameless faces ! 
In arioso trills and graces 

Ye never stray, 
But, gravissimo, solemn basses 

Ye hum away. 



Ye are sae grave, nae doubt ye're wise; 
Nae ferly tho' ye do despise 
The hairum-scairum, ram-stam boys, 

The rattlin squad : 
I see you upward cast your eyes — 

— Ye ken the road 



Whilst I — ^but I shall hand me there- 
Wi' you I'll scarce gang 07u/ ivhere — 
Then, Jamie, I shall say nae mair. 

But quat my sang, 
Content wi' you to mak a pair, 

Whare'er I gang. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



23 



A DREAM. 



Tliouglits, words, and deeds, the statute blames with 

reason ; 
Bill surely dreams were ne'er indicted treason. 



[On reading, in the pul)lic papers, the Laure.aVs Ode, 
with the other parade of June 4, 1780, the author 
was no sooner dropped asleep, than he imagined him- 
selft'- the bi(th-day levee ; and in his dreaming fancy 
made the following Address.] 



I. 



Gfin-MOUNiNG to your Mnjesli/ ! 

May hoav'n aa<iii»oiit your blisses, 
On every new birlh-dnj/ ye see, 

A humble poet wishes ! 
My bardsiiip here, at your levee, 

Oi> sic a day as tliis is, 
Is sure an uncouth sijrht to see, 

Amang the birth-day dresses 

Sae fine this day. 



II. 



I see yeVo complimented tlirang, 

By monic a lord and lady ; 
" God save tlie kinir '." 's a cuckoo sang 

Thai's iinco easy said ay ; 
The ports, too, a venal gang, 

Wi' rhymes weel-turn'd and ready. 
Wad gar you trow ye ne'er do wrang, 

But ay unerring steady. 

On sic a day. 

III. 

For me ! before a monarch's face, 

Ev'n there I winna flatter ; 
For neither pension, post, nor place. 

Am 1 your humble debtor : 
So. nae reflection on i/our grace. 

Your kingship to bespatter ; 
There's monio waur been o' the race. 

And aiblins ane been better 

Than you this day. 

IV. 

'Tis very true my sov'rcign kinff, 

My skill may wecl be doubteJ: 
But facts are cliiels that winna ding. 

An' downa be disputed : 
Your royal nest, beneath your wing, 

Is e'en right reft an' clouted, 
Ai-.d now the third part of the string, 

An' less, will gano- ai)out it 

Than did ae day 



V. 



Far be't frae me that I aspire 

To blame your legislation. 
Or say, ye wisdom w^ant, or fire. 

To rule this mighty nation ! 
But, faith ! I muckle doubt, my Sire^ 

Ye'vc trusted ininislration 
To chaps, wha, in a barn or byre. 

Wad better fill'd their station 

Than courts yon day. 



VI. 



And now ye'vc gien auld Britain peace, 

Her broken sliins to plaster 
Your sair taxation does her fleece. 

Till she has scarce a tester ; 
For me, thank God, my life's a lease, 

Nae bargain v^^earing faster. 
Or, faith ! 1 fear, that wi' the geese, 

I shortly boost to pasture 

1' the craft some day. 



VII. 



I'm no mistrusting Willie Pill, 

When taxes lie enlarges, 
(An' Wilts a true guid fallow's get, 

A name not envy spairges,) 
That he intends to pay your debt, 

An' lessen a' your charges ; 
But, G-d-sake I let nae saving-fit 

Abridge your bonnie barges 

An' boats this day. 



vni. 



Adieu, my Lvge .' may freedom gcck 

Beneath your high protection ; 
An' may ye rax corruption's neck, 

And gie lier for dissection : 
But since I'm here, I'll no neglect. 

In loyal, true affection. 
To pay your Queen, with due respect, 

My fealty an' subjection 

This great birth-day. 

IX. 



Hail, Majesty Most Excellent . 

While nobles strive to please ye, 
Will ye accept a compliment 

A simple poet gies ye? 
Thae bonnie bairntinie, Heav'n has lent, 

Still higher may they heezc yc 
In bliss, till fate some day is sent. 

For ever to release ye 

Frae care that day. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



For you, yonntj potentate o' W , 

I tell your Hi.glmess fairly, 
Down pleasure's stream, wi' swelling sails, 

Tni tauid ye're driving rarely ; 
But some day ye may gnaw your nails, 

An' curse your folly sairly, 
That e'er ye brak Diana's pales. 

Or, rattrd dice wi' Charlie, 

By night or day. 

XI. 

Yet aft a ragged cmvte's been known 

To make a noble aiver ; 
So, ye may doucely fill a throne, 

For a' their clish-ma-claver : 
There, him'*' at Agincourl wha shone, 

Few better were or braver; 
And yet, wi' fumiy, queer Sir John,f 

He was an unco shaver 

For moiiie a day. 

XII. 

For you, right rev'rend O , 

Nane sets the lawn-sleeve sweeter. 
Although a ribban at your lug 

Wad been a dress completer ; 
As ye disown yon paughty dog 

That bears the keys of Peter, 
Then, swith ! an' get a wife to hug, 

Or, troutli I ye'll stain the mitre 

Some luckless day 

XIII 

Young, royal Tarry Breeks, I learn, 

YeVe lately come athwart her ; 
A glorious gaUey^X stem an' stem. 

Well rigg'd for Venus'" barter ; 
But first hang out, that she'll discern 

Your hymenial charter, 
Then heave aboard your grapple airn, 

An', large upo' lier quarto)-, 

Come full that day. 

XIV. 

Ye, lastly, bonnie blossoms a', 

Ye royal lasses dainty 
Heav'n niak you guid as weel as braw, 

An' gie you lads a-plenty : 
But sneer nae British boys awa,' 

For kings arc unco scant ay ; 
An' German gentles are but sma''. 

They're better just than want ay 
On onie day. 



* King Henry V. 
t Sir John Falstaff: vide Sliakspeare. 
X Alluding to the newspaper account of a certain 
royal sailor's amour. 



XV. 



God bless you a' ! consider now, 

Ye're unco muckle dautet ; 
But, ere the course o' life be tliro', 

It may be bitter sautet : 
An' I hae seen their coggie fou, 

That yet hae tarrow't at it ; 
But or the day was done, I trow, 

The laggen they hae clautet 

Fu' clean that day. 



THE VISION. 



DUAN FIRST.* 

The sun had clos'd the winter day, 
The curlers quat their roaring play. 
An' hunger'd maukm ta'en her way 

To kail-yards green, 
While faithless snaws ilk step betray 

Whare she has been. 

The thresher's weary Jlingin-tree 
The lee-lang day had tired me ; 
And when tJie day had clos'd his e'e. 

Far i' the west, 
Ben i' the spence, right pensivelie, 

I gaed to rest. 

There, lanely, by the ingle-cheek, 
I sat and ey'd the spewing reek. 
That filld'd, wi' hoast-provoking smeek. 

The auld clay biggin 
An' heard the restless rattons squeak 

About the riggin. 

All in this mottie, misty clime, 
I backward rnus'd on wasted time. 
How I had spent my youthfu' prime, 

An' done nae-tliing- 
But stringin blethers up in rhyine, 

For fools to sing. 

Had I to guid advice but harkit, 
I might, by this, hae led a market. 
Or strutted in a bank an' clarkit 

My cash account . 
While here, half-mad, half-fed, half-sarlat, 

Is a' th' aniotuit. 

I started, mutt'ring, blockhead ! coofi 
And heav'd on high my waukit loof. 
To swear by a' yon starry roof. 

Or some rash aith, 
That I, henceforth, would be rhyme-proof 

Till my last breath- - 

*Duan, a term of Ossian's for the different divisinni" 
of a digressive poem. See his Cat)i-L.oda, vol. ii. of 
M'Plierson's translation. 



BURNS' POEMS 



25 



Wlien click ! the string the snick did draw ; 
And joe ! the door gaed to the wa' ; 
All' hy my ingle-lowe J saw, 

Now bleezin bright, 
A tight, outlandish Hiszie, braw, 

Come full in sight. 



Ye need na doubt, I held my whisjit ; 
The infant aith, half-form'd, was crusht ; 
I glowr'd as eerie's I'd been dusht 

In some wild glen ; 
When sweet, like modest worth, she blusht, 

Aiad stepped ben. 



Green, slender, leaf-clad holly-hoiighs 
Were twisted, gracefu', round her brows ; 
I took her for some Scottish Muse, 

By that same token ; 
An' come to stop those reckless vows, 

Wou'd soon been broken. 



A " hair-brain'd, sentimental trace," 
Was strongly marked in her face ; 
A wildly-witty, rustic grace 

Shone full upon her ; 
Her eye, ev'n tum'd on empty space, 

Beam'd keen with honour. 



Down flow'd her robe, a tartan sheen ; 
Till half a leg- was scrimply seen ; 
And such a leg ! my bonnie Jean 

Could only peer it ; 
sae straught, sae taper, tight, and clean, 

Nane else came near it. 



Her mantle large, of greenish hue, 
My gazing wonder chieliy drew ; 
Deep ligJds and sliades, bold-mingling threw, 

A lustre grand ; 
And seem'd, to my astonish 'd view, 

A well known land. 



Here, rivers m the sea were lost ; 
There, mountains to the skies were tost : 
Here, tumbling billows mark'd the coast, 
With surging foam ; 
There, distant shone Art's lofty boast. 
The lordly dome. 



Here, Doon pour'd down his far-fetch'd 
floods ; 
Tliere, well-fed Irwine stately thuds : 
Auld hermit Ayr staw thro' his woods, 
On to the shore ; 
Arid many a lesser torrent scuds. 

With seeming roar. 



Low, in a sandy valley spread. 
An ancient borough rear'd her head ; 
C 2 



Still, as in Scottish story read. 

She boasts a race, 

To ev'ry nobler virtue bred. 

And polish'd grace. 

By stately tow'r or palace fair 
Or ruins pendent in the air. 
Bold stems of heroes, here and there, 
I could discern ; 
Some seem'd to muse, some seem'd to dare. 
With feature stern. 

My heart did glowing transport feel. 
To see a race* heroic wheel, 
And brandish round the deep-dy'd steel 

In sturdy blows ; 
Wliile back-recoiling seem'd to reel 

Their stubborn foes. 

His country's saviour ,t mark him well ! 
Bold RicliardtonsX heroic swell ; 
The cliief on Sark\ who glorious fell, 

In high command ; 
And he whom ruthless fates expel 

His native land. 

There, where a scepter'd Piclish shade,]] 
Stalk'd round his ashes lowly laid, 
I mark'd a martial race, portray'd 

In colours strong ; 
Bold, soldier-featur'd, undismay'd 

They strode along 

Thro' many a wild, romantic grove,^ 
Near many a hermit-fancy 'd cove, 
(Fit haunts for friendship or for love) 

In musing mood, 
An aged judge, I saw him rove, 

Dispensmg good 

With deep-struck reverential awe** 
The learned sire and son I saw. 
To Nature's God and Nature's law 

Tliey gave their 
This, all its source and end to draw. 

That, to adore. 



'The Wallaces. 



t William Wallace. 



t Adam Wallace, of Ricliardton, cousin to the im- 
mortal preserver of Scottish independence. 

5 Wallace, Laird of Craigie, who was second in com- 
mand, imder Douglas earl of Ormoml, at t^c famous 
battle on the banks of Sark, fought anno 1448. That 
glorious victory was principally owing to the judicioui 
conduct, and intrepid valour of the gallant Laird of 
Craigie, who died of his wounds after the action. 

II Coilusi, king of the Picts, from whom the district of 
Kyle is said to take its name, lies buried, as tradition 
says, near the family-seat of the Montgomeries of Coil's- 
field, where his burial-place is still snowi). 

IT Barskiinming the seat of the Lord Justice-Clerk 

** Catrine, the seat of the late doctor and presen 
professor Stewart. 



26 



BURNS' POEMS. 



Brydone's brave ward'*" I well could spy, 
Benealli old Scotia's smiling eye ; 
Who call'd on fame, low standing by, 

To liand him on, 
Where many a patriot name on high, 

And hero shone. 

DUAN SECOND. 

With musing-deep, astonish'd stare, 
I view'd the heavenly -seeming /air ; 
A whispering throb did witness bear, 

Of kindred sweet, 
When with an elder sister's air 

She did me greet. 

"All hail ! my own insjnred bard ! 
In me thy native muse regard 1 
Nor longer mourn thy fate is hard. 

Thus poorly low 1 
I come to give thee such reward 

As we bestow. 

" Know, the great genius of tliis land 
Has many a light aerial band. 
Who, all beneath his high command, 

Harmoniously, 
As arts or arms they understand, 

Thek labours ply. 

" They ScolkCs race among them share ; 
Some fire the soldier on to dare ; 
Some rouse the patriot up to bare 

Corruption's heart : 
Some teach the bard, a darling care. 
The tuneful art. 

" 'Mong swelling floods of reeking gore, 
They, ardent, kindling spirits pour ; 
Or, 'mid the venal senate's roar. 

They, sightless, stand, 
To mend the honest patriot-lore. 

And grace the hand. 

" And when the bard, or hoary sage, 
Charm or instruct the future age. 
They bind the wild poetic rage 
In energy. 
Or point the inconclusive page 

Full on the eye. 

" Hence FuUarlon. the brave and young ; 
Hence Dnnpsttrs zeal-inspired tongue ; 
Hence sweet harmonious Beallie sung 

His ' Minstrel lays ;' 
Or tore, with noble ardour stung, 

The sceptic's bays. 

" To lower orders are assign'd 
The humbler ranks of human-kind, 

• Colonel Fullarton. 



The rustic Bard, the lab'ring Hind 
Tiie Artisan ; 

AU chuse, as various they're inclin'd, 
The various man. 



" Wlien yellow waves the heavy grain, 
Tiie threat 'ning storm some strongly rein. 
Some teach to meliorate the plain 

With tillage-skill ; 
And some instruct the shepherd-train, 

Blythe o'er the hill. 



" Some hint the lover's harmless wile ; 
Some grace the maiden's artless smile ; 
Some soothe the lab'rer's weary toil. 

For humble gains, 
And make his cottage-scenes beguile 

His cares and pains. 



" Some, bounded to a district-space, 
Explore at large man's infant race. 
To mark tlie cmbryotic trace 

Of rustic Bard ; 
And careful note each op'ning grace, 

A guide and guard. 



" Of these am I — CoiJa my name ; 
And this district as mine I claim. 
Where once the Camplmlls, chiefs of fame, 

Held ruling pow'r • 
I mark'd thy embryo tuneful flame. 

Thy natal hour. 

" With future hope, I oft would gaze 
Fond, on thy Uttle early ways, 
Tliy rudely caroU'd chiming phrase. 

In uncouth rhymes, 
Fir'd at the simple, artless lays 

Of other tunes. 



" I saw thee seek the sounding shore, 
Delighted with the dashing roar ; 
Or when the north his fleecy store 

Drove thro' the sky, 
I saw grim nature's visage hoar 

Struck thy young eye. 



" Or, when the deep green-mantl'd earth 
Warm cherish'd ev'ry flow'ret's birth. 
And joy and music pouring forth 

In ev'ry grove, 
I saw thee eye the gen'ral mirth 

AVith boundless love. 



" When ripen'd fields, and azure skies, 
Call'd forth the reaper's rustling noise, 
I saw thee leave their evening joys. 

And lonely stalk, 
To vent thy bosom's swelling rise 

In pensive walk. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



21 



" "When youthful love, warm-blusliing, 

strong, 
Keen-shivering shot thy nerves along, 
Those accents, grateful to thy tongue, 

Tlf adored jYaine, 
I taught tliee liow to pour in song. 

To soothe thy flame. 



" T saw thy pulse's maddening play, 
Wild send thco pleasure's devious way, 
Misled by fancy's meteor ray. 

By passion driven ; 
But yet the light tliat led astray 

Was liglU from heaven. 



" I taught thy manners-painting strains, 
The loves, the ways of simple swains, 
Till now, o'er all my wide domains 

Tliy fame extends : 
And some, the pride of CoiJas plains, 

Become my friends. 



" Thou canst not learn, nor can I show, 
To paint with Thomso7is landscape-glow ; 
Or wake the bosom-melting throe, 

Witii Shcnslnne's art • 
Or pour, with Gray, the moving flow 

Warm on the heart. 



"Yet all beneath th' unrivall'd rose. 
The lowly daisy sweetly blows ; 
Tho' large the forest's monarch throws 

His army shade, 
i'et green the juicy hawthorn grows, 

Adown the glade. 



" Then never murmur nor repine ; 
Strive in thy humble sphere to sliine : 
And trust me, not PotosCs mine. 

Nor kings' regard. 
Can give a bliss o'ermatching thine, 
A rustic Bard. 



" To give my counsels all in one 
The tuneful flame still careful fan ; 
Preserve Oie Dignity of Man, 

With soul erect ; 
Ana trust, the Umversal Plan 

Will all protect. 



" And irearlhmi this'''' — she solerrm said, 
And bound the Hol/i/ round my head : 
The polish'd leaves, and berries red, 

Did rustling play ; 
And, like a passing thought, she fled 

In light away. 



ADDRESS TO THE UNCO GUID, 



OR, TUB 



RIGIDLY RIGPITEOUS. 



My son, tliese maxims make a rule, 

And lump lliem ay tliegitlier; 
The Rigid Rigliteous is a fool, 

Tlie Rigid Wise anither: 
Tlie cleanest corn that e'er was dight 

May hae some ]iylcs o' catrin ; 
go ne'er a lellovv-creature slight 

For random fits o' dafiin. 

Solomon. — Eccles. eh. vii. ver. 16. 



1. 



O YE wha are sac guid yoursel, 

Sae pious and sae holy, 
Ye've nought to do but mark and tell 

Your neebor's faults and folly ! 
Whase life is like a weel-gaun mUl, 

Supply'd wi' store o' water. 
The heapet happer's ebbing stijl, 

And still the clap plays clatter 

n. 

Hear me, yo venerable core, 

As counsel for poor mortals, 
That frequent pass douce Wisdom's door 

For glaikit Folly's portals ; 
I, for their thoughtless, careless sakes. 

Would here propone defences. 
Their donsie tricks, their black mistakes, 

Their faihngs and mischances. 

m. 

Ye sec your state wi' theirs compar'd. 

And shudder at the niffer, 
But cast a moment's fair regard, 

What maks the mighty differ ; 
Discount what scant occasion gave. 

That purity ye pride in. 
And (what's aft mair than a' the lave) 

Your better art o' liiduig. 

IV. 

Think, when your castigated pulse 

Gies now and th<^n a wallop. 
What ragings must his veins convulse, 

That stUl eternal gallop : 
Wi' wind and tide fair i' your ta:l, 

Riglit on ye scud your sea-way ; 
But in the teeth o' baith to sail. 

It maks an unco leeway. 



28 



BURNS' POEMS. 



Sep social life and glee sit down, 

All joyous and unthinking, 
Till, quite transmii/^rity'd, they're grown 

Dehaucherj' and drinking : 
O, would they stay to calculate 

Th' eternal consequences ; 
Or your more dreaded hell to taste, 

D-nniation of expenses 1 

VI. 

Ye high, exalted, virtuous dames, 

Ty"d up in godly laces, 
Before ye gie poor fraillij names, 

Suppose a change o' cases ; 
A dear lov'd lad, convenience snug, 

A treacherous inclination — 
But, let me whisper i' your lug, 

YeVe aiblins nae temptation. 

VII. 

Then gently scan your brother man, . 

Still gentler sister woman ; 
Tho' they may gang a kennin wrang; 

To step aside is human : 
One point must still be greatly dark, 

The moving why they do it : 
And just as lamely can ye mark, 

How far perhaps tliey rue it. 

vin. 

Who made the heart, 'tis He alone 

Decidedly can try us. 
He knows each chord — its various lone. 

Each spring, its various bias : 
Then at the balance let's be mute. 

We never can adjust it ; 
VVIiat's done we partly may compute. 

But know not what's resisted. 



TAM SAMSON'S* ELEGY. 



» An honest man's the noblest work of God. 

FOPE. 



Has auld K********* seen the Deil ? 
Or great M'*******t tlura wn his heel ! 

*VVhnn this worthy old sportsman went out last muir- 
fowl season, he supposed it wan to be, in Ossian's phrase, 
' tlie last of hid fielils ;" and expressed an tjrdent wish 
10 (lie and be buried in tlie niuirs. On this hint the 
author composed his elegy and epitaph. 

t A certain preacher, a great favourite with the mil- 
lion, fide tht! Ordination, stanza 11. 



Or R* ****** again grown wcel,* 

To preach an' read. 

"Na,waur than a !" cries ilka chiel. 

Tarn iSamsoti's dead ! 



K* ******** lang may grunt an' grane 
An' sigh, an' sab, an' greet her lane. 
An' deed her bairns, man, wife, an' wean, 
In mourning weed ; 
To death, she's dearly paid the kane, 

Tajn Samson's dead ! 



The brethren of the mystic level 
May hing their head in woefu' bevel, 
While by their nose the tears will revel, 

Like ony bead ; 
Death's gien the lodge an unco devel : 

Tam Samson's dead 



Wlien winter mufHes up his cloak, 
And binds the mire like a rock ; 
When to the loughs the curlers flock, 

\Vi' gleesome speed, 
Wha will they station at the cock .^ 

Tam Samson's dead I 



He was the king o' a' the core. 
To guard, or draw, or wick a bore, 
Or up the rink like Jehu roar 

In time of need ; 
But now he lags on death's hog-score, 

Tam Samson's dead ' 

Now safe the stately sawmont sail. 
And trouts bedropp'd wi' crimson hail, 
And eels weel kerm'd for souple tail, 

And geds for greed, 
Since dark in death's Jxsh-creel we wail 

Tam Samson dead I 



Rejoice, ye birring paitricks a' ; 
Ye cootie moorcocks, crousely craw ; 
Yo maukins, cock your fud fu' braw, 

Withouten dread ; 
Your mortal fae is now awa', 

Tam Samson's dead 



That woefu' mom be ever mourn'd, 
Saw him in shootin graith adorn 'd. 
While pointers romid impatient burn'd, 

Frae couples freed* 
But, och I he gaed and ne'cr^etum'd! 

Tam Samson's dead 

In vain auld age his body batters; 
In vain the gout his ancles fetters ; 

* Another preacher, an equal favourite with the few 
who was at that time ailing. For him, see also lbeOf» 
dination, stanza IX. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



99 



In vain tho bums came down like wulois, 
All iicrii liniiii 1 

Now ovVy ttulil wifo, jjrdulin, clattors, 

Tain Suniijou's (lead ! 



Owro nmuy a weary hag ho linipit, 

All' ay tl\o titluir sliot he tliinnpit, 
'I'lll coward doatli hohiiul liiiii iiiinpit, 

\ViMeii(llyl'eldo; 
Now lie prochiiins, wi' loui o' Inunpol, 

Tain Sanibuirs dead ! 



Wien ni his lioart. lio felt the dn<Tger, 
Ho reefd liiH wonted lioltle-swajri^er, 
But yot iio drew tho mortal triyj^er 

Wi' wool iiini'd heed; 
" L — d, five!" ho cry'd an' owro did slaj^jfer; 

Tain SaniHoii'b dead ! 

Ilk lionry hunter inourn'd a hrithor; 
\\k sporlsiiian youth boinoan'd a (iitlior ; 
i on aiiKl gray utano, ainang the iioathor, 

Marks out hiti head, 
A'huro Hums has wrote, in rhyming blether, 

Tani Saimon^s dead ! 



Tiiere low he lies, in lasting rest ; 
Perhaps upon his mould'riiig breast 
Some spilolu' muirfowl bins her nest. 

To liatcli an' breed ; 
Alas : naemair he'll them niol(\st ! 

Tain Saiasou's dead ! 



When August winds the heather wave, 
And Hportsiiieii wander by yon grave, 
Three volleys let his mem'ry crave 

O' pouthor an' load, 
'I'dl Echo answer frae her cave, 

Tarn Samson's dead ! 



Iloav'n rest his saul, whare'er he ho ! 
Is th' wish o' monie niae than me; 
He had twa faults, or may bt^ three. 

Yet what reinead? 
Ae social, honest man want we : 

Tain Samson's dead ! 



THE EPITAPH. 



Tam Sa.mson's weel-worn clay here lies, 
V'o cantinif zealots, sjiare him I 

If honest worth in heaven rise, 
Yc'll mend or yo win near him. 



PER CONTRA. 



Co, fomo, nn' canter like a filly 
Thro' a' the streets an' nenks o' Killie^ 
Tell ev'iy social, honest billio 

To cease his grievin, 
For yet, unskaith'd by dc^ath's gh^g giillie, 
Tain Sumsun^s livm. 



IIALLOWEEN.f 



The following Pooni will, liy many rcnilers, bo well 
cnoiii;!! Uhilcrslood ; liiil lor lliusukijof those who 
aru uiiac<|uaiiiltMl with llu: iiiaiineis ami trudllioiis 
of the counUy whoiu llie sc(!iio Is oust, iioles are nd- 
ded, logivusoine neuouiit of the principal clmrnis and 
spi^lia of Ihat nielli, bo h\g ivilh prophecy lo the pea- 
santry ill Ihe west of Heolland. The passion of pry- 
ing' into fnturlly makes a titrikiiit' part of the history 
of hnmaii iialiue in ita riidu state, in all ages and 
nations; and it may he some entcntainnient to a phi- 
losophic mind, if any Bnr.h should honour the aiitlior 
with a perusal, to see the reinaina of it, among Uie 
mure unenlightened in our own. 



Yes ! let the rich deride, the proud disdain, 
The simple pleasures of the lowly train ; 
Tu me more dear, congenial to my heart, 
One native charm, timn all the yloss of art. 

GOLUSMITH. 
I. 

Upon that night, when fairies light, 

On Cassilis JJownunsJl. dance, 
Or owre the lays, in splendid blaze. 

On Hj>righlly coursers jiranco; 
Or for Colt an the route is ta'en, 

IJoneath the moon's pale beams; 
Tluiie, ii|) the coN',\ to stray an' rove 

Ainang tho rocks and streams 

To sport thut nigiit. 

II. 

Amang the bonnie winding hanks, 
^Vhero Dnon rins, wiiniiliiig clear, 

Where l?ni<e|| ance riil'd the martial ranks. 
An' shook his Carrirk spear, 

* Kiltie Is a phrase the country-folks soinctliiiea use 
foe KlliiiArnock. 

t Is thought 10 be iiiglil when witches, devils, anit 
other mischief making heings, are all abroad on llieii- 
baneful, midnight errands; parti<:ularly tliose aerial 
people the Pairics, arc said on that night, to liold a 
grand anniversiiry. 

i Ccrlain Utile, romantic, rocky, green hills, in the 
neiglilionrhood of the ancieirl scat of the Earls of 
Cas'silis. 

vS A noted cavern near Colean-hnnse, called The 
(^)ve of Colran ; which, as Cnssilis Downans, i-i famed 
iu country story lor being a favourile haunt of fairies. 

II The fiiMious family of that name, the ancrsiors of 
Ifoherl, the great deliverer of his country, wero llarli 
of Can 1^. 



30 



BURNS' POEMS. 



Some merr}', friendly, countra folks, 

Toiretlicr dill convene, 
To burn their nils, an pou their stocks, 

An' hand tiicir Halloween 

Fu' blythe that night. 

III. 

The lasses feat, an' cleanly neat, 

Mair braw than when they're fine ; 
Their faces blythe, fu' sweetly kytlie, 

Hearts lea!, an' warm an' kin': 
The lads sae trig, wi' wooer-babs, 

Weol knotted on tiicir garten, 
Somr unco blate, an' some wi' gabs, 

Gar lasses' hearts gang startin 

Whiles fast at night. 



IV. 



Then first and foremost, thro' the kail, 

Their slocks* maun a' be sought ance ; 
They steek their een' an' graip an' wale, 

For muckle anes an' strauglit anes. 
Poor hav'rel Will fell aft" the drift, 

An' wander'd thro' the boiv-kail. 
An' pow't for want o' better shift, 

A null was like a sow-tail, 

Sae bow't that night. 



Then, straught or crooked, yird or nane, 

They roar and cry a' throu'ther ; 
The vera wee things, todlin, rin 

Wi' stocks out-owre their shouther ; 
An' gif the cuslocs sweet or sour, 

Wi" joctelegs they taste them ; 
Syne coziely, aboon the door, 

Wi' cannie care they place them 

To lie that night, 

VI. 

The lasses staw frao 'mang them a' 
To pou their slalks o' com ,-t 

* The first ceremony of Halloween is, pullin:; each a 
stack, or plant, of kail. Tli(>y must go out, hand in 
hand, with eyes shut, and pull tlie fiist they meet with : 
Its being big or little, straight or crooked, is prophetic 
of the size and shape of the grand oliject of all their 
spells — the husband or wife. If any yird, or earth, stick 
to the root, that is tocher, or fortune; and the taste of 
the custoc, that is, the lieart of the stem, is indicative 
of the natural temper and disposition. Lastly, the 
stems, or. to give them their ordinary appellation, the 
runts, are placed somewhere above the head of the 
door: and the christian names of the people whom 
chance brings into the house, are, according to the 
priority of placing the runts, the names in <iuestion. 

t They go to the barn-yard and pull each, at three 
several times, a sialk of oats. If the third stalk wants 
the top-picldc, that is, the grain at the top of the stalk, 
the party in question will come to the marriage-bed 
aiiy thing but a maid. 



But Rab slips out, an' jinks about, 

Bchint the muckle thorn : 
He grippet Nelly hard an' fast; 

Loud skirl'd a' the lasses; 
But her lap-pirkle niaist was lost. 

When kiuttlin in the fause-house* 

Wi' hlni tliat night 



VII. 

The auld guidwife's weel hoordet 7iitst 

Are round an' round divided, 

An' monie lads' and lasses' fates, 

Are there that night decided : 

Some kindle, couthic, side by side 

An' burn thcgilher trimly ; 
Some start aw a wi' saucie pride, 
And jump out-owre the chimlie 

Fu' hi"h that night. 



vm 

Jean slips in twa, wi' tentie e'e* 

Wha 'twas she wadna tell ; 
But this is Jock, an' this is me. 

She says in to hersel : 
He blcez'd owre her, an' she owre him, 

As they wad never mair part ; 
Till fulf 1 he started up the luni, 

And Jean had e'en a sair heart 

To see't that night. 



IX. 

Poor Willie, wi' his bow-kail riint, 

Was brunt wi' primsie Mallie ; 
An' Mallie, nae doubt, took the drimt. 

To be compar'd to Willie : 
Mall's nit lap out wi' pridefu' fling. 

An' her ain fit it burnt it ; 
While Willie lap, and swoor hy jiyig, 

'Twas just tlie way he wanted 

To be that night. 

X. 

Nell had tlie fause-house in her min,' 

She pits hersel an' Rob in; 
In loving bleeze they sweetly join. 

Till white in ase they're sobbin : 

* When tlie corn is in a doubtful state, by being too 
qrcen, or wet, the stack-builder, by means of old timber, 
&c., makes a large apartment in his stack, with ar, 
opening in the side which is fairest exposed to tho 
wind : this he calls a fause-house. 

t Burning the nuts is a famous charm. They name 
the lad and lass to each particular nut, as ihey lay them 
in the fire, and accordingly as they burn quietly to- 
gether, or start from beside one another, the course s-.nd 
issue of the courtship will be. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



3i 



Nell's heart was dancin at the view, 
She wliisporVl Kob to Icuk for't : 

Rob, stowlius, prie'd her boiinie inou, 
Fu' cozie in the iieuk for't, 

Unseen that night. 

XT. 



But Mcrran sat bchiiit tlieir backs, 

Her thoughts on Andrew Bell ; 
She Icacs them gashin at their cracks, 

And slips out by hersel : 
She tliro' the yard the nearest taks, 

An' to the kiln she goes then, 
An' darklins grapit for the banks, 

And in the blue-clue* throws then, 

llight fcar't that night. 



XII. 

An' ay she win't, an' ay she swat, 

I wat she made nae jaukin ; 
Till something held within the pat, 

Guid L — d 1 but she was quakin ! 
But whether 'twas the Deil himsel. 

Or whether 'twas a bauken, 
Or whether it was Andrew Bell, 

She did na wait on talkin 

To spier that night. 

XIII, 

Wee .lenny to her Grannie says, 

" Will ye go wi' m(;, grannie? 
■"11 eat the <ipp!e\ al the glass, 

I gat frao uncle Johnie :" 
She luff 't her pipe wi' sic a lunt, 

In wrath she was sae vap'rin, 
She notic't na, an azle brunt 

Her braw new worset apron 

Out thro' that night. 

XIV. 

•' Ye little skclpie-limmer's face ! 

How daur you try sic sportin, 
As seek the foul Thief ony place, 

For him to spae your fortune : 



* Whoever would, with success, try this spell, must 
Btrictly observe these directions: Steal out, all alone, to 
the kiln, and, darkliuR, tliiow into the pot a clue of 
blue ynrn ; wind it in a new clue ofT the old one ; and, 
towards the latter end, something will hold the thread ; 
demand wlia liauds ? i e. who holds ? an answer vvi'.l 
be returned from the kiln-pot, by naming the Chris- 
tian and surname of your future spouse. 

tTake a catidle. and go alone to a looking glass; eat 
on apple before it, and some traditions say, you should 
comb your hair, all the time ; the face of your conjugal 
companion, to Ab, will be seen in the glass, as if peeping 
over your shoulder. 



Nae doubt but ye may get a sight .' 
Great cause ye liae to fear it; 

For monie a ane has gotten a fright. 
An' liv'd an' di'd dcleeret 

On sic a night. 



XV. 



"Ac hairst afore the Sherra-moor, 

I mind't as weel' yestreen, 
I was a gilpey then, I'm sure 

I was na past fyfteen : 
The simmer had been cauld an' wat, 

An' stuff was unco green ; 
An' ay a rantin kirn we gat, 

An' just on Halloween 

It fell that night. 



XVI. 

" Our stibble-rig was Rab M'Graen, 

A clever, sturdy fallow ; 
He's sin gat Eppie Sim wi' wean. 

That liv'd in Achmacalla: 
He gat hemp-seed^* 1 mind it weel, 

An' he made unco light o't ; 
But monie a day was bi/ hhnsel. 

He was sae sairly frighted 

That vera night." 



XVII. 

Then up gat fechtin Jamie Fleck, 

An' he swoor by his conscience. 
That he could saw hemp-seed a peck ; 

For it was a' but nonsense ; 
The auld guidman raught down the pock, 

An' out a handful' gied him ; 
Syne bad him slip fra 'mang the folk 

Sometimes when nae ane see'd him : 
An' try't that night. 



XVIII. 

He marches thro' amang the stacks, 
Tho' he was something stnrtin ; 

The graip he for a harrow taks, 
An' haurls at his curpin : 



* Steal out unpercpived, and sow a handful of hemp 
seed ; harrowing it with any ihing you can conveni- 
ently draw after you. Repeat now and then, " Hemp 
seed I saw thee, hemp seed I saw thee ; and him (of 
her) that is to be my true-!ove, come after me and pou 
thee." liOnk over yiiur left shoulder, and you will set 
the appearance of the person invoked, in ihe attitude 
of pulling hemp. Some traditions say, "come after me, 
and shaw thee," that Is, show thyself: in which case h 
simply appears. Others omit the harrowing, and say, 
"come after me, and harrow thee." 



32 

An' evVy now an' then, he says, 

" Hemp-seed I saw thee. 
An' her tliat is to be my lass. 

Come after me, and draw thee, 

As fast this night.' 

XIX. 



He whistrd up Lord Lenox' march. 

To keep his courage clieerie ; 
Altho' his hair began to arch. 

He was see fley'd an' eerie : 
Till presently he hears a squeak, 

An' then a grane an' g-r untie; 
He by his shouther gae a keek. 

An' tumbl'd wi' a wintlo 

Out-owre that night. 

XX. 

He roar'd a horrid murder-sliout. 

In dreadfu' desperation I 
An' young an' auld came rinnin out. 

To hear the sad narration : 
He swoor 'twas hilchin Jean M'Craw, 

Or crouchie Merran Humphie, 
Till stop ! she trotted thro' them a' ; 

An' wha was it but Grumphie 

Asteer tliat night I 

XXI. 

Meg fain wad to the bam gaen 

To 7<'jn three wechts o' naething ;* 
But for to meet the deil her lane, 

She pat but little faith in : 
Slie gies the herd a pickle nits. 

An' twa red chcekit apples, 
To watch, while for the ham she sets, 

In hopes to see Tam Kipples 

That vera night. 

XXIL 

She turns the key wi' cannie thraw, 
An' owre the threshold ventures; 

But first on Sawnie gies a ca' 
Syne bauldly in she enters ; 



* This charm must likewise be performed unperceived, 
and alone. You go to the bam, and open both doors, 
talking them off the hinges, if pos^sible ; for there is 
danger that the bein^, about to appear, may shut the 
doors, and do you some mischief. Then take tliat in- 
strument used in winnowing the corn, which, in our 
country dialect, we call a wcclit ; and go through all the 
attitudes of leuing down corn against the wind. Ee- 
peal it three times; and the third time an apparition 
tvill pass through the barn, in at the windy door, and 
nut at the other, having both the figure in question, nnd 
the appearance or retinue, marking the employment or 
s'.iiiioii in life. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



A ration rattled up the wa', 

An' she cry'd L — d preserve her 

An' ran thro' midden-liole an' a', 
An' pray'd wi' zeal an' ferv-sur, 

Fu' fast ihat night. 

XXIII. 

They hoy't out Will, wi' sair advice : 

They hecht him some fine braw ane ; 
It chanc'd the stack hefaddom''d thrice,* 

Was timmer propt for thrawin : 
He taks a swirlie, auld moss-oak, 

For some black, grousome carlin ; 
An' loot a winze, an, drew a stroke. 

Till skin in blypes came haurlin 

AiF's nieves that night. 

XXIV. 

A wanton widow Leezie was. 

As canty as akittlen ; 
But Och ! that night, amang the shaws, 

She got a fcarfu' settlin ! 
She thro' the whins, an' by the cairn. 

An' owre the hill gaed scrievm, 
Whare three hiirds' lajid,^ met at a bum\ 

To dip her left sark-sleeve in, 

Was bent that night. 

XXV. 



Whyles owre a linn the bumie plays, 

As tlwo' the glen it wimpl't ; 
Whyles round a rocky scar it strays; 

Whyles in a wiel it dimpl't ; 
Whyles glitter'd to the nightly rays, 

Wi' bickering, dancing dazzle ; 
Whyles cookit underneath tlie braes. 

Below the spreading hazel, 

Unseen that night. 



XXVL 



Amang the brachens, on the brae. 
Between her an' the moon, 

The deil, or else an outler quey. 
Gat up an' gae a croon : 



♦ Take an opportunity of going, unnoticed, to a Boar 
stack, and fathom it three times round. The last fa- 
thom of the last time, you will catch in your arms th« 
appearance of your future conjugal yoke fellow. 

t You go out, one or more, for tliis is a social spell, tt 
a south running spring or rivulet, where " three lairds' 
lands meet," and dip your left shirt sleeve. Go to bed 
in sight of a fire, and hang your wet sleeve before it to 
dry. Lie awake ; and sometime near midnight, an ap- 
parition, having the exact figure of the grand object ii 
question, will come and turn the sleeve, as if to dry thl 
other side of it 



BURNS' POEMS. 



33 



Poor Lpozie's hnart maist lap the liool ; 

N(;or lav'rock lioiahl slie junipit, 
But mist a fit, an' in the ;)0()/ 

Out-owre the lugs she plumpit, 

Wi' a plunge that night. 

XXVII. 

[n order, on the clean hearth-stane, 

The lu^gies tliree* are ranged. 
And evVy time great care is ta'cn, 

To see them duly changed : 
Auld uncle John, vvha wedlock's joys 

Sin Mars year did desire. 
Because he gat the toom-dish thrice, 

lie heav'd tliem on the fire 

In wrath that night. 

XXVIII. 

Wi' merry sangs, an' friendly cracks, 

I wat they dinna weary ; 
An' unco talcs, an' funnie jokes, 

Their sports were cheap an' cheery, 
Till butter'd so'n.?,t wi' fragrant lunt. 

Set a' their gabs a-steerin ; 
Syne, wi' a social glass o' strunt, 

They parted affcareerin 

Fu' blythe that night. 



THE AULD FARMER'S 

NEW- YEAR MORNING SALUTATION 

TO 

HIS AULD MARE MAGGIE, 



On giving her tlie accustomed RIpp of Corn to hansel 
in llie New-Year. 

A GUiD Kew-year I wish thee, Maggie ! 
Hae, there's a ripp to thy auld baggie : 
Tho' thou's liowe-backit, now, an' knaggie, 

I've seen the day, 
Thou could hae gaen like ony staggie 
Out-owre the lay. 

* Take three dishes ; put clean water in one, foul 
water in another, leave the third empty : blindfold a 
person, and lead him to the hearth wliere the dishes 
are ranged ; he (or she) dips the left hand : if by chance 
In the clean water, the future husband or wife will 
come to the bar of matrimony a maid ; if In the foul, a 
widow; if intheenipiy dish, it foretells, with equal cer- 
tuinty, no marriage at all. It is repeated three times, 
liiic' every lime tlif arrangement of the dishes is altered. 

T Sovvens, with butter instead of milk to them, is al- 
V/.'ivs the Halloween Supper. 

D 



Tho' now thou's dowie, stiff, an' crazy, 
An' thy auld hide's as white's a daisy, 
I've seen thee dappl't, sleek, and glaizie, 

A bonnie gray : 
He should been tight that daur't to raize thc% 
Ance in a day. 



Thou ance was i' the foremost rank, 
A Jilly buirdly, steeve, an' swank, 
An' set weel down a shapely siiank, 

As e'er tread yird ; 
An' could hae flown out-owre a stank, 

Like ony bird. 



It's now some nine an' twenty year, 
Sin' thou was my good father's meere ; 
He gied me thee, o' tocher clear, 

An' fifty mark ; 
The' it was sma', 'twas weol-won gear, 

An' thou was stark. 



When first I gaed to woo my Jenny, 
Ye then was trottin wi' your minnie : 
Tho' ye was trickle, slee, an' funnie. 

Ye ne'er was donsie ; 
But hamely, tawie, quiet, an' cannie. 
An' unco sonsie. 



That day, ye pranc'd wi' muckle pride, 
"VNTien ye bure hame my bonnie bride ; 
An' sweet, an' gracefu' she did ride, 

Wi' maiden air 1 
Kyle Slewart I could bragged wide. 

For sic a pair. 



Tho' now ye dow but hoyte an' hobble 
An' wintle like a saumont-coble, 
Tliat day ye was a jinker noble, 

For heels an' win' ! 
An' ran them till they a' did wauble, 

Far, far behin'. 



When thou an' I were young an' skeigh, 
An' stable-meals at fairs were dreigh. 
How thou wad prance, an' snore, an' skreigh. 

An' tak the road 1 
Town's bodies ran, and stood abeigh. 

An' ca't thee mad. 



WTien thou was com't, an' I was mellow, 
We took the road ay like a swallow : 
At Brooses thou had ne'er a fellow. 

For pith an' speed ; 
But ev'ry tail thou pay't them hollow. 

Where'er thou gaed. 



The sma', droop-rumpl't, hunter cattle. 
Might alblins waur't thee for a brattle ; 



34 



BURNS' POEMS. 



But sax Scotch miles thou try't their mettle, 
An' gar't them whaizle : 

Nae whip nor spur, but just a wattle 

O' sauffh or hazel 



Thou was a nohleJltHe-lan'', 
As e'er in tug or tow was drawn ! 
Aft thee an' 1, in aught hours gaun, 

On guid March weather, 
Hae turn'd sax rood beside our han', 

For days tliegither. 

Thou never braindg't, an' fetch't, an' fliskit, 
But thy auld tail thou wad hae whiskit, 
An' spread abreed thy weel-fill'd brisket, 

Wi' pitli, an' pow'r, 
Till spritty knowes wad rair't and risket, 

An' slypet owre. 

When frosts lay lang, an' snaws were deep, 
An' threaten'd labour back to keep, 
I gied thy cog a wee-bit heap 

Aboon the timmer ; 
I kerm'd my Maggie wad na sleep 

For that, or simmer. 

In cart or car thou never reestit ; 
The ste3fest brae thou wad hae fac't it : 
Thou never lap, and sten't, and breastit, 

Then stood to blaw ; 
But just thy step a wee thing hastit, 

Thou snoov't awa. 

My pleugh is now thy bairn-time a' : 
Four gallant brutes as e'er did draw : 
Forbye sax mae, I've sell't awa. 

That thou hast nurst : 
They drew me thretteen pund an' twa, 

The vera warst. 



Monie a sair daurk we twa hae wrought, 
An' wi' the weary warl' fought ! 
An' monie an anxious day, I thought 

We v/ad be beat ! 
Yet here to crazy age we're brought, 

Wi' something yet. 

And thmk na, my auld trusty servan', 
Tiiat now perhaps thou's less deservin. 
An' thy aulc" days may end in starvin, 

For my last/oM, 
A heapit stimpart, I'll reserve ane 

Laid by for you. 

We've worn to crazy years thegither ; 
We'll toyte about wi' ane anither ; 
Wi' tcntie care, I'll flit thy tether. 

To some hain'd rig, 
Where ye may nobly rax your leather, 
Wi' sma' fatiofue. 



TO A MOUSE, 



ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST WITH 
THE PLOUGH, NOVEMBER 1785. 

Wee, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie, 
O, what a panic's in thy breastie I 
Thou need na start awa sae hasty, 

Wi' bickering brattle '. 
I wad be laith to rin an' chase tliee, 

Wi' murdermg patlle ! 

I'm truly sorry man's dominion 
lias broken Nature's social union. 
An' justifies that ill opinion, 

Which maks thee startle 
At me, thy poor earth-born companion, 

Axi' fellow modal! 

I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve ; 
What then.'' poor beastie, tliou maun live 1 
A daimen-icker in a thrave 

'S a sma' request : 
I'll get a blessin wi' the lave. 

And never miss't ! 

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin ! 
Its silly wa's the win's are strewin I 
An' naething, now, to big a new ane, 

O' foggage green I 
An' bleak December's winds eiisuin, 

Baith snell and keen ! 

Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste, 
An' weary winter comin fast. 
An' cozie here, beneath the blast. 

Thou tliought to dwell. 
Till crash ! the cruel coulter past 

Out thro' thy cell. 

That wee bit heap o' leaves th' stibble, 
Has cost thee monie a weary nibble I 
Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble, 

But house or hald, 
To thole the winter's sleety dribble. 

An' cranreuch c?Mld.' 

But, Mousie,4hou art no thy lane. 
In proving foresight may be vain : 
The best laid schemes o' mice an' men, 

Gang aft a-gley, 
An' lea'e us nought but grief an pain". 

For promis'd joy. 

Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me ! 
The present only toucheth thee : 
But, Och I I backward cast my e'e, 

On prospects drear 
An' forward, tho' I canna see, 

I guess ii,n''fear. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



85 



A WINTER NIGHT. 



Poor naked wretches, wheresoe'er you are, 
Tliat bide the pelting of this pityless storm ! 
How shall your houseless heads, and unfed sides, 
Yourloop'd and windnw'd raggedness, defend you 

From seasons sucli as these 1 

Shakspeare. 



When biting Boreas, fell and dourc, 
Sharp shivers thro' tlie leafless bow'r; 
When Fhxbus gies a short-livM glow'r 

Far south the lift, 
Dim-dark'ning thro' the flaky showV, 

Or whirling drift : 



Ae night the storm the steeples rock'd. 
Poor labour sweet in sleep was lock'd, 
While burns, wi' snawy wrceths up-chockM, 

Wild-eddying swirl, 
Or thro' the mining outlet bock'd, 

Down headlong hurl. 



List'ning, the doors an' winnocks rattle, 
I thought me on the ourie cattle, 
Or silly sheep, wha bide this brattle, 

O' winter war, 
And thro' the drift, deep-lairing sprattle, 

Beneath a scar. 



Ilk happing bird, wee, helpless thing, 
That, in the merry montlis o' sjjring, 
Delighted me to hear tlieo sing, 

What comes o' thee ? 
Whare wilt thou cow'r thy chitfering wing. 

An' close thy e'e? 

Ev'n you on murd'ring errands toil'd, 
Lone from your savage homes exil'd, 
The blood-stain'd roost, and slieop-cote spoil'd, 

My heart forgets, 
While pityless the tempebt wild 

Sore on j^ou beats. 



Now Ph(Ebe, in her midnight reign 
Dark mufil'd, viewVl the dreary plain , 
Still crowding thoughts, a pensive train, 

Rose in my soul, 
When on my ear tliis plaintive strain. 

Slow, solenon, stole — 



" Blow, blow, ye winds, Tvith heavier gust! 
And freeze, thoit bittcr-liiting frost I 
Descend, ye chilly, smothering scows ! 
Not all your rage, as now united, shows 



More hard imkindness, unrelenting. 
Vengeful malice, unrepenting. 
Than hcav'n illumin'd man on brother man be- 
stows 1 
See stern oppression's iron grip. 
Or mad ambition's gory hand, 
Sending, like blood-hounds from the slip, 

Wo, want, and murder o'er a land 1 
Ev'n in the peaceful rural vale. 
Truth, weeping, tells the mournful tale, 
How pamper' d luxury, flatt'ry by her side. 
The parasite empoisoning her ear. 
With all the servile wretches in the rear, 
Looks o'er proud property, extended wide ; 
And eyes the simple rustic hind. 

Whose toil upholds the glittring show, 
A creature of another kind. 
Some coarser substance, unrefin'd, 
Plac'd for her lordly use thus far, thus vile, be* 
low ; 
"Where, where is love's fond, tender throe, 
With lordly honour's lofty brow, 
The pow'rs you proudly own? 
Is there, beneath love's noble name. 
Can harbour, dark, the selfish aim. 

To bless himself alone ! 
Mark maiden-innocence a prey 

To love-pretending snares, 
This boasted honour turns away 
Shunning soft pity's rising sway, 
Regardless of the tears, and unavailing pray 'rs{ 
Perliaps, this hour, in mis'ry's squalid nest. 
She strains your infant to her joyless breast. 
And with a mother's fears shrinks at the rock • 
ing blast ! 



Oh ye ! who sunk in beds of down, 
Feel not a want but what yourselves create, 
Think, for a moment, on his wretched fate, 
Whom friends and fortune quite disown I 

Ill-satisfv'd keen nature's clam'rous call, 
Stretch'd on his straw he lays himself to 
sleep. 

While thro' the ragged roof and chinky wall. 
Chill o'er his slumbers piles the drifty heap I 
Tliink on the dungeon's grim confine. 
Where guilt and poor misfortune pine I 
Guilt, erring man, relenting view ! 
But shall thy lega rage pursue 
The wretch, already crushed low 
By cruel fortune's underservcd blow;" 

Affliiction's sons are brothers in distress, 

A brother to relieve, liow exquisite the ouss. 



I heard nae mair, for Chanticleer 
Shook olf the pouthcry snavv, 

And hail'd the morning with a cheer, 
A cottage-rousing craw. 



But deep this truth impress'd my mind- 
Thro' all his works abroad. 

The heart, benevolent and kind, 
The most res-'eiiibles God. 



38 



BURNS' POEMS. 



EPISTLE TO DAVIE, 

A BROTHER POET.* 



January- 



I. 



While winds frae aff Ben Lomond blaw 
And bar the doors wi' driving snaw, 

And iiing us owre tlie ingle, 
I set me down to pass tlae time, 
And spin a verse or twa o' rhyme, 

In hamely westlin jingle. 
Wliile frosty winds blaw in the drift, 

Ben to the chimla lug, 
I grudge a wee the great folks' gift, 
That live sae bien an' snug: 
I tent less, and want less 
Their roomy fire-side ; 
But hanker and canker. 
To see their cursed pride. 

II. 



It's hardly in a body's pow'r. 

To keep, at times, frae being sour, 

To see how things are shar'd ; 
How best o' chiels are whiles in want. 
While coofs on countless thousands rant, 

And ken na how to wair't : 
But, Davie, lad, ne'er fash your head 

Tho' we hae little gear. 
We're fit to win our daily bread, 
As lang's we're hale and fier : 
" Mair spier na', nor fear na,"t 

Auld age ne'er mind a fcg. 
The last o"t, the vi'arst o't, 
Is only for to beg. 

ni 



To lie in kilns and bams at e'en. 
When banes are craz'd and bluid is thin. 

Is, doubtless, great distress ! 
Yet then content could make us blest ; 
Ev'n then, sometimes we'd snatch a taste 

Of truest happiness. 
The honest heart that's free frae a' 

Intended fraud or guile. 
However fortune kick the ba'. 
Has ay some cause to smile. 
And mind still, you'll fin'd still, 

A comfort this nae sma' ; 
Nae mair then, we'll care then, 
Nae farther can we fa'. 



* David Sillar, one of the club at Taibolton, and 

aulhor of a volume of Poems in tho Scottish dialect. E 

t Ramsay. 



IV. 



What tho', like commoners of air. 
We wander out, we know not where, 

But either house or hall ? 
Yet nature's charms, the hills and woods, 
The sweeping vales, and foaming floods, 

Are free alike to all. 
In days when daisies deck the ground, 

And blackbirds whistle clear. 
With honest joy our hearts will bound, 
To see the coming year : 

On braes when we please, then, 

We'll sit an' sowtli a tune ; 
Syne rhyme till't, we'll time till't, 
And sins 't when we hae done. 



V. 

It's no in titles nor in rank ; 

It's no in wealth like Lon'on bank, 

To purchase peace and rest ; 
It's no in makin muckle mair : 
It's no in books ; it's no in lear, 

To make us truly blest : 
If happiness hae not her seat 

And centre in the breast. 
We may be wise, or rich, or great, 
But never can be blest ; 

Nae treasures, nor pleasures. 

Could make us happ}^ lang ; 
The heart ay's the part ay. 
That makes us right or wrang. 

VI. 

Think ye, that sic as you and I, 

Wha drudge and drive thro' wet and dry 

WT never-ceasing toil ; 
Think ye, are we less blest than they 
Wha scarcely tent us in their way 

As hardly worth their while ? 
Alas ! how aft in haughty mood, 
G od's creatures they oppress ! 
Or else, neglecting a' that's guid, 
They riot in excess I 
Baith careless, and fearless 
Of either heav'n or hell! 
Esteeming, and deenaing 
It's a' an idle tale 1 



VIL 

Then let us cheerfu' acquiesce ; 
Nor make our scanty pleasures less, 

By pining at our state ; 
And, even should misfortunes come, 
I, here wha sit, hae met wi' some, 

An's thankfu' for them yet. 
The)' gie the wit of age to youth ; 

They let us ken oursel : 
They make us see the naked truth, 

The real guid and ill. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



37 



Tlio' losses, and crosses, 

Be lessons right severe. 
There's wit there, ye'll get there, 

Ye'Il find nae other where. 

VIII. 

Put tent me Davie, ace o' hearts ! 

(To say augiitless wad wraiig the cartes, 

And HaltVy I detest) 
Tills life has joj's for you and I ; 
And joys that riches ne'er could buy ; 

And joys the very best. 
There's a- the pleasures o' the heart. 

The lover an' the frien' ; 
Ye liae your Meg, your dearest part, 
And 1 my darling Jean ! 
It warms me, it charms me, 

To mention but her name : 
It heats me, it beets me. 
And sets me a' on flame ! 

IX. 

O' all ye pow'rs wlio rule above ! 
O Thou, whose very self art love ! 

Thou know'st my words sincere ! 
The life-blood streaming thro' my heart, 
Or my more dear, immortal part, 

Is not more fondly dear 1 
When heart-corroding care and grief 

Deprive my soul of rest. 
Her dear idea brings relief 
A lid solace to my breast. 
Thou Being, All-seeing, 

O hear my fervent pray'r ; 
Still take her, and make her 
Thy most peculiar care 1 



All hail, ye tender feelings dear ! 
Die smile of love, the friendly tear, 

The sympathetic glow ; 
Long since, this world's thorny ways 
Had wumber'd out my weary days, 

Had it not been for you ! 
Fate still has bless'd me with a friend. 

In every care and ill ; 
And oft a more endearing band, 
A tie more tender still. 
It lightens, it brightens 
The tenebrific scene, 
To meet with, and greet with 
My Davie or my Jean. 

XI. 

O. how that name inspires my style ! 
The words come skelpin rank and file, 

Amaist before I ken I 
The ready measure rins as fine, 
As Phcebusatid the famous Nine 

Were glowrin owre my pen. 



My spaviet Pegasus will limp. 

Till ance lies fiiirly het ; 
And then he'll liilcli, and stilt, and jimp, 
An' rin an unco tit : 

But least then, the beast then, 

Should rue this hasty ride, 

I'll light now, and diglit now 

liis sweaty wizen'd hide. 



THE LAMENT, 

OCCASIONED BY THE UNFORTUNATE ISSUE 
OF A FRIEND'S AMOUR. 



Alas ! how oft does Goodness wound itself, 
And sweet Affection prove the spiing of wo ! 
Home. 



I. 



O THOU pale orb, that silent shines, 

While care-untroubled mortals sleep ! 
Thou seest a wretch that inly pines, 

And wanders here to wail and weep I 
"With wo I nightly vigils keep. 

Beneath thy wan unwarming beam ; 
And mourn, in lamentation deep. 

How life and love are all a dream. 



II. 



I joyless view thy rays adorn 

The faintly-marked distant hill : 
I joyless view thy trembling horn. 

Reflected in the gurgling rill : 
My fondly-fluttering heart, be still ! 

Thou busy pow'r. Remembrance cease .' 
Ah ! must the agonizing thrill 

For ever bar returning peace ! 

ni. 

No idly-feign'd poetic pains, 

My sad, love-lorn lament! ngs claim , 
No shepherd's pipe — Arcadian strains ; 

No fabled tortures, quaint and tame : 
The plighted faith ; the mutual flame ; 

The oft attested pow'rs above : 
The promised Father^s tender name : 

These were the pledges of my love ! 

IV. 

Encircled in her clasping arms, 

How have the raptur'd moments flown 

How have I wish'd for fortune's charms, 
For her dear sake, and hers alone ! 



SB 



BURNS' POEMS 



And must I think it ! is she gone, 
My secret lieart's exulting boast ? 

And does she heedless hear my groan? 
And is she ever, ever lost i 



V. 



Oh ! can she bear so base a heart, 

So lost to honour, lost to truth, 
As from the fondest lover part, 

The plighted husband of her youth ! 
Alas . life's path may be unsmooth 

Her way lie thro' rough distress ! 
Then who her pangs and pains will soothe, 

Her sorrows share and make them less ? 



VL 



Ye winged hours that o'er us past, 

EnrapturM more, the more cnjoy'd. 
Your dear remembrance in my breast, 

RIy fondly-treasur'd thoughts employ'd. 
Tliat breast how dreary now, and void, 

For her too scanty once of room ! 
Ev*n ev'ry ray of hope destroyed, 

And not a wish to gild the gloom ! 

vn. 



The mom that warns th' approaching day, 

Awakes me up to toil and wo : 
I sec the hours in long array. 

That I must suffer, lingering, slow. 
Full many a pang, and many a throe, 

Keen recollection's direful train. 
Must wring my soul, ere Phoebus, low, 

Shall kiss the distant, western main. 

VIII. 

And when my nightly couch I try, 

Sore-harass'd out with care and grief. 
My toil-beat nerves, and tear-worn eye, 

Kec]) watchings with the nightly thief: 
Or if I slumber, fancy, chief. 

Reigns haggard- wild, in sore affright : 
Ev'n day, all-bitter, brings relief. 

From such a horror-breathing night. 

IX. 

1 thou bright queen who o'er tli' expanse. 

Now highest reign'st, with boundless sway ! 
Oft has thy silent-marking glance 

Observ'd us, fondly-wand'ring, stray ! 
The time, unheeded, sped away. 

While love's luxurious pulse beat high, 
Beneath thy silver-gleaming ray. 

To mark the mutual kindling eye. 



Oh ! scenes in strong remembrance set ! 

Scenes, never, never, to return i 
Scenes, if in stujior I forget. 

Again 1 feel, again I bum ! 
From ev'ry joy and pleasure torn, 

Life's weary vale I'll wander thro' 
And hopeless, comfortless, I'll mourn 

A faitlilcss woman's broken vow. 



DESPONDENCY, 



AN ODE. 



I. 



Oppress'd with grief, oppressed with cara, 
A burden more than I can bear 

1 sit me down and sigh : , 

O life ! thou art a gallmg load, 
Along a rough, a weary road. 

To wretches such as I ! 
Dim backward as I cast my view. 
What sickViing scenes appear ! 
What sorrows yd may pierce me thro* 
Too justly I may fear ! 
Still caring, despairing. 

Must be my bitter doom ; 

My woes here shall close ne'er, 

But with the closing tomb ! 

II. 

Happy, ye sons of busy life. 
Who equal to the bustling strife. 

No other view regard ! 
Ev'u when the wished e7id 's deny'd, 
Yet while the busy means are ply'd. 

They bring their own reward : 
Whilst I, a hope-abandon''d wight, 

Unfitted with an aim, 
Meet ev'ry sad returning night. 
And joyless morn the same ; 
You, bustling, and justling. 

Forget each grief and pain ; 
I, listless, yet restless. 
Find every prospect vaiu. 

ni. 

How blest the Solitary's lot. 
Who, all-forgetting all-forgot. 

Within his humble cell. 
The cavern wild with tangling roots, 
Sits o'er his newly-gather'd fruits, 

Beside his crystal well ! 
Or, haply, to his ev'ning thought, 

By unfrequented stream, 



BURNS' POEMS. 



39 



Tlie ways of men are distant brought, 
A faint collected dream : 
Wiiile praising, and raising 

His tliouglits to lieav'n on high, 
As wandVing, meandering, 
He views the solemn sky. 

IV. 



Tlian T, no lonely hermit plac'd 
Where never human footstep trae'd, 

Less fit to i)Iay the part; 
The lucky moment to improve. 
And jusl to stop, and just to move. 

With self-respecting art : 
But all ! those pleasures, loves, and joys 

Which I too keenly taste, 
The Solitary can despise, 
Can want, and yet be blest ! 
He needs not, ho heeds not, 

Or human love or hate, 
Whilst I here must cry liere, 
At perfidy ingrate I 



V. 



Oh ! enviable, early days, 

When dancing thoughtless pleasure's maze, 

To care, to guilt unknown ! 
How ill exchanged for riper times, 
To feel the follies, or the crimes, 

Of others, or my own I 
i'e tiny elves that guiltless sport, 

Like linnets in the bush. 
Ye little know the ills ye court. 
When manhood is your wish 
The losses, the crosses. 

That active man engage ! 
The fears all, the tears all. 
Of dim-decUninor ase 



WINTER. 

A DIRGE. 

I. 

The wintry west extends his blast. 

And hail and rain does blaw; 
Or. the stormy north sends driving forth 

The blinding sleet and snaw : 
iVbile tumbhng brown, the burn comes 
down, 

And roars frae bank to brae ; 
And bird and beast in covert rest 

And pass the heartless day. 



n. 



" The sweeping blast, the sky o'ercast,"* 

The joyless winter-day, 
Let others fear, to me more dear 

Than all the pride of May : 
The tempest's howl, it soothes my soul, 

My griefs it seems to join, 
The leafless trees my fancy please, 

Their fate resembles mine 

m. 

Thou Poiv'r Supreme, whose mighty schema 

These woes of mine fulfil. 
Here, firm, I rest, they must be best, 

Because they are T/iy Will ! 
Then all I want (O, do thou grant 

This one request of mine !) 
Since to enjoy thou dost deny 

Assist me to resis^n. 



COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT 

INSCRIBED TO R. A****, ESQ- 



Let not ambition mock their useful toll, 
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; 

Nor grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile 
The short but simple annals of tlie poor. 

Gray 



My lov'd, my honoured, much respected 
friend ! 
No mercenary bard his homage pays ; 
With honest pride I scorn each selfish end ; 
My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and 
praise : 
To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays, 

The lowly train in life's sequester'd scene ; 

The native feelings strong, the guileless 

ways : 

What A**** in a cottage would have been; 

Ah ! tho' his worth unknown, far happier there, 

I ween. 



II. 



November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh : 
The short'ning winter-day is near a close ; 

The miry beasts retreating frae the plough, 
The black'ning trains o' craws to their re 
pose: 

Dr. Young. 



40 



BURNS' POEMS. 



The toil-worn Colter f rae his labour goes, 
This niahl his weekly moil is at an end, 
Collects his spiidcs, his mattocks, and his 
hoes, 
Hoping the mnrn in ease and rest to spend, 
And wear/, o cr tiic moor, liis course does 
hameward bend. 



ni. 

At Icntrth his lonely cot appears in view, 

Beneath the shelter of an aged tree; 
Th' expectant wcc-things, toddlin, stacher 
thro' 
To meet their Dad, wi' flichtcrin noise an' 
glee. 
His wee bit ingle, blinkin bonnily, 

His clean hearth-siane, his thriftie ii'//iV.s 
smile, 
The lisping infant prattling on his knee. 
Does a' his weary, carking cares beguile, 
An' makes him quite forget his labour an', hiii 
toil. 



IV. 



Belyve the elder bairns come drapping in. 

At service out, amang the farmers roun'; 
Some ca' the plough, some herd, some tentie 
rin 
A cannie errend to a neebor town : 
Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman 
grown. 
In youthfu' bloom, love sparkling in her 
e'e, 
Comes hame, perhaps, to show a braw now 
jTown, 
Or deposit her sair-won penny-fee. 
To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be. 



V. 



Wi' joy unfoign'd brothers and sisters meet, 

An' each for other's weelfare kindly spiers : 

The social hours, swift-wing'd unnotic'd 

fleet ; 

Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears ; 

The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years ; 

Anticipation forward points the view. 
The mother, wi' her needle an' her sheers, 
Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the 
new ; 
The/a//ier mixes a' wi' admonition due. 



VI. 



Their master's an' their mistress's command, 
The younkcrs a' are warned to obey ; 

" An' mind tiieir labours wi' and eydent hand, 
An' ne'er, tho' out o' sight, to jauk or play : 



An' O ! be sure to fear the Lord aUvay! 

An' mind your dut}/, duly, morn an' night ' 
Lest in tenii)tation's path ye gang astray. 
Implore his counsel and assisting might : 
They never sought in vain that sought the 
Lord arioht 1" 



VII 



But hark ! a rap comes gently to the door; 

Jauiy., wha kens the meaning o' the same, 
Tells how a neebor lad cam o'er tho moor, 

To do some errands, and convoy her hame. 
The wily motlier sees the conscious tlaine 

Sparkle in Jcnmfsce, and flush her cheek ; 
With heart-struck, anxious care, inquires his 
name, 
While Jenny hafHins is affraid to speak ; 
Weel pleas'd the mother hears, it's nae w'dd, 
worthless rake. 



vin. 



Wi' kindly welcome JVnmy brings him ben ; 
A strappan youth ; he taks the mother 'p 
eye ; 
Blythe Jenny sees the visit's no ill ta'en ; 
The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and 
kye. 
The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' 



bk 



But blate and laithfu', scarce can weel 
behave ; 
The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy 
What makes the youth sao bashfu' an sae 
grave ; 
Weel pleas'd to think her bairns respected 
like the lave. 



IX. 

O happy love ! where love like this is found ! 
O heart-felt raptures ! bliss beyond com- 
pare ! 
I've paced much this weary mortal round. 

And ssige experience huh me this declare— 
" If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure 
spare. 
One cordial in this melancholy vale, 
'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair. 
In others arms breathe out the tender tale^ 
Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents tb* 
ev'ning gale." 



X. 



Is there, in human form, that bearsa Iieart^ 
A wretch! a villain! lost to love and 
truth ! 

That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art, 
Betray sweet Jenny s imsuspeclingyoutlif 



BURNS' POEMS. 



41 



Curso on liis perjur'd arts ! dissembling 
smoolli ! 
Are honour, virtue, conscience, all exil'd ? 
Is there no pity, no relenting ruth, 

Pouits to the parents fondling o'er their 
child? 
Then paints the ruin'd maid, and their dis- 
Vraction wild? 

XI. 

But now the supper crowns their simple 
board, 
The lialesome parrikh, chief o' Scotia's 
food : 
The soupo tlieir only Hawkie does afford, 
That 'yont tlie hallan snugly chows her 
cood : 
Tlie dame brings forth in complimental 
mood. 
To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd kebbuck, 
fell. 
An' aft he's prest, an' aft he ca's it guid ; 
Tlie frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell, 
HuW 'twas a towmond auld, sin' Imt was i' the 
DeiL 

XII. 

The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face. 
They round the ingle, form a circle wide ; 

The sire turns o'er, wi' patriarchal grace. 
The big luC-Rible^ ance his fatlier's pride : 

His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside. 

His lyart haffets wearing tiiin an' bare ; 

Tliose strains that once did sweet in Zion 

glide. 

He wales a portion with judicious care ; 
And '■'•Lei us worship God 1" he says, with 
solemn air. 

XIII. 

Tliey chant their artless notes in simple 
guise ; 
They tune their hearts, by far the noblest 
aim : 
Perhaps Dundee's wild warbling measures 
rise, 
Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of tlie name : 
Or noble Ehj^in oeets the heav'nward flame. 

The sweetest far of Scotia s holy lays : 
Compar'd with these, Italian trills are tame ; 
The tickl'd ears no heart-felt raptures 
raise ; 
Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise. 

XIV. 

The priest-like father reads the sacred page. 
How Ahram was the friend of God on 
high ; 

Or, Moxes bade eternal warfare wage 
AVilh Jlmalek^s ungracious progeny ; 

i;)2 



Or how the royal hard did groaning lie 
Beneath the stroke of fleaven's avenging 
ire ; 
Or, Job^s pathetic plaint, and wailing cry ; 
Or rapt Isaialis wild, serapiiic fire ; 
Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. 

XV. 

Perhaps tlie Christian volume is the tlieme. 
How guiltless blood for gudty man was 
shed ; 
How He, who bore in Heaven the second 
name ; 
Had not on earth whereon to lay his head : 
How his first followers and servants sped ; 
Tlie precepts sage they wrote to many a 
land : 
How he, who lone in Palmos banished, 
» Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand ; 
And heard great Bablon's doom pronounc'd 
by Heav'n's command. 

XVI. 

Then kneeling down, to Heaven's Eternal 
King, 
The saint, the father, and the husbuTid 
prays : 
Hope " springs exulting on triumphant 
wing,"* 
That thus they all shall meet in future 
days : 
There ever bask in uncreated ra3^s, 

No more to sigh, or shed the bitter fear. 
Together hymning their Creator^s praise, 
Ci such society, yet still more dear ; 
WTiile circhng time moves round in an eternal 
sphere, 

XVII. 

Compar'd with this, how poor Religion's 
pride, 
In all the pomp of method, and of art. 
When men display to congregations wide, 
Devotion's ev'ry grace, except the heart ! 
The Potv'r, incens'd,the pageant will desert, 
The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole 
But haj)Iy, in some cottage far apart. 

May hear, well pleas 'd, the language of 
the Eoul ; 
And in his book of life the inmates poor euro-. 

xvm. 

Then homeward all take off their sev'ral 
way ; 
The yougling cottagers retire to rest : 
The parent-i)air their secret hoynage pay. 
And proffer up to Heaven the warm ro 
quest 

*Popu's Windsor Forest. 



42 



BURNS' POEMS. 



That He who stills the raven's clarn'rous 
nest, 
And decks the lily fair in flovy'ry pride, 
Would, in the way his wisdom sees the best. 
For them and for their little ones provide ; 
But chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine 
preside. 

XIX. 

I'rom scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur 
springs, 
That makes her lov'd at home, rever'd 
abroad : 
Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, 
" An honest man's tlie noblest work of 
God :" 
And cerles, in fair virtue's heavenly road, 

The collage leaves the palace far behind ; 
What is a lordling's pomp ! a cumbrous load-. 
Disguising oft the wretch of human kind. 
Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refin'd I 

XX. 

O Scotia ! my dear, my native soil ! 

For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is 
sent ! 
Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil, 
Be bless'd with health, and peace, and 
sweet content \ 
And, O ! may Heaven their simple lives pre- 
vent 
From luxury's contagion, weak and vile ! 
Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, 
A virtuous populace may rise the while, 
And stand a wall of fire around their much- 
lov'd Isle. 

XXI. 

O Thou ! who pour'd the patriotic tide 
That stream'd thro' JVallace^s undaimted 
heart ; 
Who dar'd to nobly stem tyrannic pride, 
Or nobly die, the second glorious part, 
(The patriot's God, peculiarly thou art. 
His friend, inspirer, guardian, and re- 
ward !) 
O never, never, Scotia^s realm desert : 
But still the patriot, and the patriot bard. 
In bright succession raise, her ornament and 
guard I 



MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN. 

A DIRGE. 
I. 

When chill November's surly blast 
Made fields and forests bare, 



One ev'ning, as I wanderd forth 

Along the banks of .'/vr, 
I spy'd a man, whose aged step 

Seem'd weary, worn with care ; 
His face was furrow'd o'er with years, 

And hoary was his hair. 

II. 

"Young stranger, whither wand'rest thou ? 

Began the reverend sage ; 
" Does thirst of wealth thy step constram. 

Or youtliful pleasure's rage ; 
Or haply, press'd with cares and woes, 

Too soon thou hast began 
To wander forth, with me, to mourn 

The miseries of man 1 

m. 



" The sun that overhangs yon moors, 

Out-spreading far and wide, 
Where liundreds laboiu: to support 

A haughty lordling's pride ; 
I've seen yon weary winter-sun 

Twice forty times return ; 
And ev'ry time has added proofs, 

That man was made to mourn. 

IV. 

" O man ! while m thy early years, 

How prodigal of time ! 
Mispending all thy precious hours, 

Thy glorious youthful prime ! 
Alternate follies take the sway ; 

Licentious passions bum ; 
Which tenfold force gives nature's law, 

That man was made to mourn. 



V. 



" Look not alone on youthful prime. 

Or manhood's active might ; 
Man then is useful to his kind, 

Supported is his right : 
But see him on the edge of life, 

With cares and sorrows worn. 
Then age and want. Oh ! ill match'd pair, 

Show man was made to mourn. 



VL 

" A few seem favountes of fate, 

In pleasure's lap carest ; 
Yet, think, not all the rich and great 

Are likewise truly blest. 
But, Oh I what crowds in ev'ry land, 

Are v/retched and forlorn ; 
Thro' weary life this lesson leam, 

That man was made to mourn. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



43 



VJL 

* Many and sharp the numerous ills 

Inwoven vvilli our frame I 
More pointed still we make ourselves, 

Regret, remorse, and sliame '. 
And man, wliose heaven-erected face 

The smiles of love adorn, 
Man's inliumanity to man 

Makes countless thousands mourn I 



vm. 



" See yonder poor, o'erlabour'd wight, 

So abject, mean, and vile, 
Who begs a brother of the earth 

To give liim leave to toil ; 
And see his lordly /e//o7i'-itor»i 

The poor petition spurn, 
Unmindful, tho' a weeping wife 

And helpless offspring mourn. 



IX. 



' If I'm design 'd yon lordling's slave,- 

By nature's law dcsign'd. 
Why was an independent wish 

E'er planted in my mind? 
If not, why am 1 subject to 

His cruelty or scorn .'' 
Or why has man the will and povv'r 

To make his fellow mourn i 



" Yet, let not this, too much, my son, 

Dicturb thy youthful breast : 
This partial view of human-kind 

Is surely not the last .' 
The poor, oppressed, honest man, 

Had never, sure, been born. 
Had there not been some recompense 

To comfort those that mourn 1 



XL 



" O death I the poor man's dearest friend. 

The kindest and the best ! 
Welcome the hoar my aged limbs 

Are laid with thee at rest ! 
The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow, 

Frosn pomp and pleasure torn ; 
But, Oh 1 a bless 'd relief to those 

That weary-laden mourn 1" 



PRAYER IN THE PROSPECT 



DEATH 



I. 



O THOU unknown. Almighty Cause 

Of all my hope and fear 1 
In whose dread presence, ere an houi 

Perhaps I must appear I 

II. 

If I have wander'd in those paths 

Of life I ought to shui* 
As something, loudly, in my breast, 

Remonstrates 1 have done ; 

ni. 

Tliou know'st that thou liast formed me 
With passions wild and strong ; 

And hst'ning to their witching voice 
Has often led me wrong. 

IV. 

Where human iveakness has come short. 

Or frailly slept aside. 
Do thou All-Good ! for such tliou art, 

In shades of darkness hide. 



Wliere vrith intenlion I have err'd. 

No other plea 1 have. 
But, Thou art good ; and goodness still 

Delighteth to forgive. 



STANZAS 

ON THE SAME OCCASION. 

Why am I loath to leave this earthly scene? 
Have I so found it full of pleasing charms : 
Some drops of joy with draughts of ill be- 
tween : 
Some gleams of sunshine 'mid renewing 
storms : 
Is it departing pangs my soul alarms ? 

Or death's unlovely, dreary, daris abode? 
For guilt, for guilt, my terrors are in arms ; 
I tremble to a])proach an angry God, 
And justly smart beneath liis sm-avenging rod. 



44 



BURNS' POEMS. 



Fain' would I say,"Forgive my foul ofFencel''' 

Fain promise never more to disobey ; 
But, should my Author liealth again dis- 
pense, 
Again I mii^lit desert fair virtue's way ; 
Again in folly's path might go astray : 

Again exalt the brute and sink the man ; 
Then how should I for heavenly mercy pray, 
Who act so counter heavenly mercy's 
plan ? 
Who sin so oft liave mourn'd, yet to tempta- 
tion ran ? 

O thou, preat Governor of all below I 
If I may dare a lifted eye to Thee, 
Thy nod can make tiie tempest cease to 
blow, 
Or still the tumult of the raging sea : 
Willi what controlling pow'r assist ev'n me. 
Those headlong furious passions to coii- 
tine ; 
For all unfit I feel my pow'rs to be. 

To rule their torrent in th' allowed line ; 
O, aid me with thy help, Omniyulence Divine ! 



V. 



LYING AT A REVEREND FRIEND'S HOUSE 
ONE NIGHT, THE AUTHOR LEFT 

THE FOLLOWING VERSES 

IN TIIE ROOM WHERE HE SLEPT. 



1. 



O Tirou dread Pow'r, who reign'st above ! 

I know thou wilt me liear : 
When for this scene of peace and love, 

1 make my pray'r sincere. 

n. 

The hoary sire — the mortal stroke, 
Long, long, be pleas'd to spare 1 

To bless his little filial flock, 
And siiow what good men are. 

in. 

She, who her lovely offspring eyes 

With tender hopes and fears, 
O, bless her with a inolher's joys. 

But spare a mother's tears I 

VI. 

Their Jiopo, their stay, their darling youth, 
In manhood's dawning blush ; 

Bless him, thou God of love and truth. 
Up to a parent's wisii I 



The beauteous, seraph sister-band 

With earnest tears I pray. 
Thou know'st the snares on ev'ry hand. 
Guide thou their steps aiway ! 

VI. 

When soon or late they reach that coast. 
O'er life's rough ocean driv'n, 

May tiicy rejoice, no wand'rer lost, 
A family ui Heav'n 1 



THE FIRST PSALM. 

TiiK man, in life wherever plac'd, 

Hath happiness in store. 
Who walks not in the wicked's way. 

Nor learns their guilty lore ! 

Nor from the scat of scornful pride 
Casts forth his eyes abroad, 

But witii humility and awe 
Still walks before his God. 

That man sliall flourish like the trees 
Which by the streamlets grow ; 

The fruitful top is spread on liigh. 
And firm the root below. 

But he whose blossom buds in guilt 
Sliall to the ground be cast. 

And like the rootless stubble, tost 
Before the sweeping blast. 

For why ? that God the good adore 
Hath giv'n theni peace and rei-t, 

But hath decreed that wicked men 
Shall ne'er be truly blest. 



A PRAYER, 

UNDER THE PRESSURE OF VIOLENT ANGUtSU. 

O THOU Great Being I what thou art 

Surpasses me to know : 
Yet sure I am, that known to tlice 

Are all thy works below. 

Thy creature here before thee stands, 

All wretched and distrost ; 
Yet sure those ills tliat wring my soul 

Obey thy high behest. 

Sure thou. Almighty, canst not act 

From cruelty or wrath ! 
O, free my weary eyes from tears. 

Or close tliem fast in death ! 

But if I must afflicted be. 

To suit some wild design ; 
Then man my soul with firm resolves 

To bear and not repine ! 



BURNS' POEMS. 



45 



FIRST SIX VERSES OF THE NINETIETH 
PSALM. 

O THOU, the first, the greatest friend 

Of all the human race ! 
Whose strong ri<iht hand has ever been 

Their stay and dwelling place ! 

Before the mountains heav'd their heads 

Beneath thy formmg hand, 
Before this pondTous globe itself, 

Arose at thy command : 

That pow'r which rais'd and still upholds 

This universal frame. 
From countless, unbeginning time 

Was ever still the same. 

Those mighty periods of years 

Which seem to us so vast, 
Ai)pear no more before thy sight 

Than yesterday tliat's past. 

Thou giv'st the word : Thy creature, man, 

Is to existence brought ; 
Again thou say'st, " Ye sons of men, 

Return ye into nought !" 

Thou layest tliem, with all their cares, 

In everlasting sleep ; 
As with u flood thou tak'st them off 

With overwhehnLng sweep. 

They flourish like the morning flow'r. 

In beauty's pride array'd ; 
But long ere night cut down it lies 

All vvilher'd and decay'd. 



TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY, 

ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH 
IN APRIL 1766 

Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r, 
Thou's met me in an evil hour ; 
For I maun crush amang the stoure 

Thy slender stem; 
To spare thee now is past my pow'r. 

Thou bonnie gem. 

Alas ! it's no thy neebor sweet. 
The bonnie Lark, companion meet ! 
IV'nding thee 'mang the dewy weet ! 

Wi' spreckled breast. 
\^ hen upward-springinir, blythe to greet 

The purpling east. 



Cauld blew the bitter-biting north 
Upon thy early, humble birth ; 
Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth 

Amid the storm, 
Scarce rear'd above the parent earth 

Thy tender form. 

The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield. 
High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun shield, 
But thou beneath the random bield 

O' clod or stane, 
Adorns the histie stibble-field. 

Unseen, alane. 

There, in thy scanty mantle clad. 
Thy snawy bosom sun-ward spread. 
Thou lifts thy unassuming liead 

In humble guise ; 
But now the share uptears thy bed. 

And low thou lies ! 

Such is the fate of artless Maid, 
SweetyZow're/ of the rural shade I 
By love's simplicity betray 'd. 

And guileless trust. 
Till she, like thee, all soil'd is laid 

Low i' the dust. 

Such is the fate of simple Bard, 
On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd I 
Unskilful he to note the card 

0{ prudent lore, 
Till billows rage, and gales blow hard. 

And whelm him o'erl 

Such fate o£ suffering worth isgiv'n. 
Who long with wants and woes has striv'n. 
By human pride or cunning driv'n, 

To mis'ry's brinK, 
Tillwrench'd of ev'ry stay but Heav'n, 

He, ruin'd, sink ! 

E'vn thou wiio mourn'st the Daisy's fate 
TTiatfate is thine — no distant date ; 
Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives, elate. 

Full on thy bloom. 
Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight, 

Shall be tliy doom ! 



TO RUIN. 
I. 

All hail ! inexorable lord ! 

At whose destruction-breathing word, 

The mightiest empires fall I 
Thy cruel wo-delighted train, 
The ministers of grief and pain, 

A sullen welcome, all 1 



BURNS' POEMS. 



With stem-rcsolv'd, despairing eye, 

I SCO each aimed dart; 
For one lias cut my dearest lie. 
And quivers in my heart. 
Then low'ring, and pouring', 

The storm no more I dread ; 
Tho" thick'ning and black'ning, 
Round my devoted head. 

n. 

/ nd, thou grim pow'r, by life abhorr'd, 
Wliile life a pleasure can afford, 

Oh ! hear a wretch's pray'r I 
No more I shrink appalFd, afraid ; 
I court, I beg tjiy friendly aid, 
To close this scene of care ! 
When shall my soul in silent peace, 

Resign life's _;o?y /cm day; 
My weary heart its throbbing cease, 
Cold mouldVing in the clay ? 
No fear more, no tear more. 
To stain my lifeless face ; 
Enclasped, and grasped 
Within thy cold embrace ! 



TO MISS L— , 

WITH BEATTIE'S POEMS AS A NEW YEAR'S 
GIFT, JANUARY 1, 1787. 

Again the silent wheels of time 
Their annual round have driv'n, 

And you, tho' scarce in maiden prime, 
Are so much nearer Heav'n. 

No gifts have I from Indian coasts 

The infant year to hail ; 
I send you more than India boasts. 

In Edwin's simple tale. 

Our sex with guile and faitliless love 

Is charg'd, perhaps, too true ; 
But may, dear maid, each lover prove 

An Edwin still to you 1 



EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND. 

MAY— 1736. 
I. 

I LANG hae thought, my youthfu' friend, 
A something to have sent you, 

Tho' it should serve nae other end 
Than just a kind memento ; 



But how the subject-theme may gang 
Let time and chance determine ; 

Perhaps it may turn out a sang 
Perhaps turn out a sermon. 

n. 



Ye'll try the world soon, my lad. 

And, Andrew dear, believe me, 
Ye'll find mankind an unco squad. 

And muckle they may grieve ye. 
For care and trouble set your thought, 

Ev'n when your end's attained ; 
And a' your views may come to nought. 

Where ev'ry nerve is strained. 



in. 

I'll no say, men are villains a'; 

The real, harden'd wicked, 
Wha hae nae check but human law. 

Are to a few restricked : 
But, och I mankind are unco weak, 

An' little to be trusted ; 
If 5e//the wavering balance shake. 

It's rarely right adjusted ! 



IV. 



Yet they wha fa' in fortune's strife, 

Tlieir fate we should nae censure, 
For still th' important end of life. 

They equally may answer; 
A man may hae an honest heart, 

Tho' poortith hourly stare him; 
A man may tak a neebor's part, 

Yet hae nae cash to spare him. 



V. 



Ay free, afF ban' your story tell, 

'SVhen wi' a bosom crony ; 
But still keep something to yoursel 

Ye scarcely tell to ony. 
Conceal yoursel as weel's ye can 

Frae critical dissection ; 
But keek thro' ev'ry other man, 

Wi' sharpen 'd, slee inspection. 

VI. 



The sacred lowe o' weel-plac'd lovo, 

Luxuriantly indulge it; 
But never tempt th' illicit rove, 

Tho' naething should divulge it! 
I wave the quantum o' the sin. 

The hazard of concealing ; 
But ocli ! it hardens a' within. 

And petrifies the feeling '• 



BURNS' POEMS. 



4*7 



vn. 



To catch dame Fortune's golden smile, 

Assiduous wait upon her ; 
And gather gear by ev'ry wile 

Tliafs justified by honour ; 
Not for to liidc it in a hedge, 

Not tor a train-attendant ; 
But for the glorious privilege 

Of bcLiig independent. 

VIII. 

The fear o' hell's a hangman's whip, 
To haud the wretch in order ; 

But where ye feel your honour grip. 
Let that ay be your border ; 

Its sligiitcst touclies, instant pause- 
Debar a' side pretences ; 

And resolutely keep its laws 
Uncaring consequences, 

IX. 

The great Creator to revere, 

Must sure become the creature. ; 
But still the preaching cant forbear, 

And ev'n the rigid feature : 
Yet ne'ei* with vvits profane to range, 

Be complaisance extended ; 
An Atheist's laugli's a poor exchange 

For Deity offended 1 



When ranting rovmd in pleasure's ring, 

Religion may be blinded ; 
Or if she gie a random sting. 

It may be little minded ; 
But when on life we're tempest-driv'n, 

A conscience but a canker — 
A correspondence fix'd wi' Heav'n, 

Is sure a noble anchor ! 

XI. 

Adieu, dear, amiable youth ! 

Your heart can ne'er be wanting : 
May prudence, fortitude, and truth, 

Erect your brow undaunting ! 
^1 ploughman phrase, " God send you speed,'' 

Still daily to grow wiser : 
ind may you better reck the rede. 

Than ever did th' adviser ! 



ON A SCOTCH BARD 

GONE TO THE WEST INDIES. 

A' YE wha live by soups o' drink, 
A' ye wha live by crambo-clink. 



A' ye wha live and never tliink. 

Come mourn wi' me ' 
Our billie 's gien us a' a jink. 

An' owre the sea. 



Lament him a' ye rantin core, 
Wha dearly like a random-splore, 
Nae mair he'll join the merry-roar. 

In social key ; 
For now he's ta'en anither shore, 

An' owre the sea. 



The bonnie lasses weel may wiss him. 
And in their dear petitions place liim : 
The widows, wives, an' a' may bless Llm, 

Wi' tearfu' s'e • 
For weel I wat they'll sairly m.iss hin 

That's owre tiie sea. 



O Fortune, they hae room to grumble ! 
Hadst thou ta'en aff some drowsy burnmlo, 
Wha can do nought but fyke an' fumble, 

'Twad been nae plea ; 
But he was gleg as ony wumble. 

That's owre the sea. 



Auld, cantie Kyle may weepers wear, 
An' stain them wi' the saut, saut tear; 
'Twill mak her poor auld heart I fear. 

In flinders flee ; 
He was her laureate monie a year. 

That's owre the sea. 



He saw misfortune's cauld nor-west 
Lang mustering up a bitter blast ; 
A jillet brak his heart at last, 

111 may she be ! 
So, took a birth afore the mast, 

An' owre the sea. 



To tremble under Fortune's cummock. 
On scarce a bellyfu' o' drummock, 
Wi' his proud, uidependent stomach. 

Could ill agree ; 
So, row't his hurdles in a hammock. 

An' owre the sea 



He ne'er was gien to great misguiding. 
Yet coin his pouches wad na bide hi ; 
Wi' him it neer was under hiding ; 

He dealt it free : 
The muse was a' that he took pride in, 
That's owre the sea. 



Jamaica bodies, use Iiim weel, 
An' hap him in a cozie biel : 
Ye"ll find liim ay a dainty chiel. 

And fou' o' glee ; 
He wad na wrang'd the vera deil. 

That's owre the sea. 



48 



BURNS' POEMS. 



Fareweol, my rliyme-composin" billie ! 
Your native soil was riglit ill-willic ; 
But may ye flourish like a lily. 

Now boniiilie ! 
ni toast yo in my hindmost gillie, 

Tho' owre the sea. 



TO A HAGGIS. 



Fa!U fa' your honest, sonsie face, 
Great cliieftain o' the puddin-race ! 
Aboon them a' ye tak your place, 

Paiuch, tripe, or thairm : 
Weel are ye wordy of a grace 

As lang's my arm. 

The groanin;^ trencher there ye fill, ' 
\our hurdies like a distant hill, 
Your;;m wad help to mend a mill 

In time o' need,' 
While thro' your pores the dews distil 

Like amber bead. 



His knife see rustic labour dight, 
An' cut you up with ready sliglit, 
Trencliing your gushing entrails bright 

Like onie ditch ; 
And then, O what a glorious sight, 

Warm-reekin, rich ! 

Then horn for horn they stretch an' strive, 
Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive. 
Till a' their weel-swalPd kytcs bolyvc 

Are bent like drums ; 
Then auld guidman, maist like to ryve, 

Bclhankit hums. 



Is there that o'er his French ragout. 
Or olio that wad staw a sow, 
Ot fricassee wad mak her spew 

Wi' perfect sconncr, 
Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view 

On sic a dinner ? 



Poor devil ! see him owre his trash. 
As feckioss as a withered rash, 
His spindle shank a guid wliip lash, 

His nieve a nit ; 
Thro' bloody flood or field to dash, 

O how unfit ! 



But mark tlie rustic, liaggls-fcd. 
The trunil)liug earth resounds his tread. 
Clap in his walio nieve a blade, 

He'll mak it whissle ; 
An' legs, an' arms, an' hnads will sned. 

Like taps o' thrissle. 



Ye pow'rs, wha mak mankind your care, 
And dish them out their bill o' fare, 
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware 

That jaups in luggies ; 
But, if ye wish her gratefu' pray'r, 

Gie her a Haggis ' 



A DEDICATION 



TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ. 

Expect na, Sir, in this narration, 
A fleechin, fietirrin dedication, 
To roose you up, an' ca' you guid, 
An'' sprung o' great an' noble bluid. 
Because ye're surnam'd like his grace. 
Perhaps related to tlie race ; 
Then when Im tir'd — and sae are ye, 
Wi' mony a fulsome, sinfu' lie. 
Set up a face, how I stop short, 
For fear your modesty be hurt. 

This may do — maun do. Sir, wi' them wka 
Maun please the great folk for a wamefou; 
For me ! sae laigh I needna dow. 
For, Lord be thankit, / can plough ; 
And when I downa yoke a naig, 
Then, Lord, be thankit, I can beg; 
Sae I shall say, an' that's nae flatt'rin, 
It's just sic poet, an' sic patron. 

Tlie Poet, some guid angel help him, 
Or else, 1 fear some ill ane skelp him. 
He may do weel for a' he's done yet, 
But only he's no just begun yet. 

The Patron, (Sir, ye maun forgie me, 
I winna lie, come what will o' mc) 
On ev'ry hand it will allow'd be, 
He's just — nae better than he should be. 



I readily and freely grant. 
He dov^'na sec a poor man want ; 
What's no his ain he winna tak it, 
What ance he says he winna break it ; 
Ought he can lend he'll no refus't, 
Till aft his guidncss is abus'd : 
And rascals wliyles that do him wrang, 
Ev'n that, he docs na mind it lang : 
As master, landlord, husband, fatlier. 
He does na fail Jiis part hi either. 

But then, na thanks to him for a' that 
Nae god/ij sipnplom ye can ca' that ; 
It's nactliing but a milder feature, 
Of our poor, sinfu,' corrupt nature ! 
Ye'll gel the best o' moral works, 
'Mang black Gcntoos and pagan Turks, 



BURNS' POEMS. 



49 



Or hunters wild on Pffnolnri, 

Wha nover heard of orthodoxy. 

That he's the poor inan's frioiid in need, 

The geiilleman in word and deed, 

It's no tliro' terror of d-mn-tion ; 

It's just a carnal inclination. 



Morality, thou deadly banc, 
Thy tens o' thousands thou hast slain ! 
Vain is his ho])e, whose stay and trust is 
In moral mercy, truth, and justice ! 



No — stretch a point to catcli a plack ; 
Abuse a brother to his l)ack ; 
Steal thro' a unnnock frae a wh-re. 
But point the rake that taks the door: 
Be to the poor like onio wliunstano. 
And hand their noses to the o'runstane. 
Ply every art o' legal tiiiovinnf ; 
No matter, stick to somid believing. 



Lcam three-mile pray'rs, and half-mile 
graces, 
Wi' wecl-spread looves, an' lang wry faces ; 
Grunt up a solemn, lengthen'd groan, 
And damn a' parties but your own ; 
I'll warrant tlicn, ye're nae deceiver, 
A steady, sturdy, staunch believer. 



O ye wha leave the springs of C-te-n, 
For gumliedubs of your ain delvin ! 
Ye sons of heresy and error, 
Ye'U some day squecl in quaking terror ! 
When vengeance draws the sword in wrath. 
And in the fire throws tiie slieath ; 
When Ruin, with his sweeping besom. 
Just frets till Heav'n commission gies Iiim: 
While o'er the harj) palo mis'ry moans, 
And strikes the ever doep'ning tones. 
Still louder shrieks, and heavier groans ! 

Your pardon, Sir, for this digression, 
I maist forgat my dedication ; 
But when divinity comes cross me, 
My readers still are sure to lose me. 



So, Sir, ye see 'twas nae daft vapour, 
But I maturely lliought it proper, 
When a' my work I did review. 
To dedicate them. Sir, to You: 
Because (ye need na tak it ill) 
I thought them something lilie yoursel. 



Then patronise them vrC your favour. 
And vovu' petitioner shall ever — 
1 iiad amaist said, ever pray. 
But that's a word I need na say : 
For pravin I hae little skill o't ; 
I'm bailli dead-swcor, an' wretched ill o't ; 
But I'se repeat each poor man's prafr, 
Tliat kens or hears about you. Sir — 



" May ne'er misfortune's gowling bark, 
Howl tliro' tjic dwelling o' the Clerk! 
May ne'er his gen'rous, honest lieart. 
For that same gen'rous spirit smart I 
May K******'s far iionour'd name 
Lang beet his hymeneal flame, 
Till Jl**:*****'s, at least a dizen. 
Are frae their nuptial labours risen : 
Five bonnie lasses round their table, 
And seven braw fellows, stout an' able 
To serve their king and country wee!. 
By word, or pen, or pointed steel 1 
May healtli and peace, with mutual rays, 
Sliine on the evening o' his days; 
Till iiis wee curlie John's ier-oe, 
When ebbing life nae niair shall flow. 
The last, sad, mournful rites bestow 1" 



I will not wind a lang conclusion,. 
Wi' com])limcntary effusion : 
But whilst your wishes and endeavours 
Are blest with Fortune's smiles and favoims, 
I am, dear Sir, with zeal most fervent, 
Your much indebted, humble servant. 



But if (which Pow'rs above prevent !) 
That iron-hearted carl, Want, 
Attended in his grim advances, 
By sad mistakes, and black mischances. 
While hopes, and joys, and pleasures fly Jiim, 
Make you as poor a dog as I am. 
Your humble servant then no more ; 
For who would humbly serve the poor! 
But by a poor man's hopes in Heav'n ! 
While recollection's pow'r is given, 
If, in the vale of humble life, 
Tlie victim sad of fortune's strife, 
I, thro' the tender gushing tear. 
Should recognize my master dear. 
If friendless, low, we meet together. 
Then, Sir, your hand — my friend and hrollicr ! 



TO A LOUSE. 

ON SEEING ONE ON A LADY'S RONNET 
AT CHURCH. 



Ha ! whare yegaun, ye crowlin ferlie! 
Your impudence protects you sairiy • 
I canna say but ye strunt rarely, 

Ovvre gauze and lace; 
Tho' faith, I fear ye dine but sparely 

On sic a place. 



Ye uely, crcepin, l)lastit wonnar. 
Detested, sliumi'd by saunt an' sinner, 



50 



BURNS' POEMS. 



How daro ye set your fit upon her, 

Sao fine a lady ! 

Gae somewhere else and seek your dinner 
On some poor body. 

Swith, in some beg-gar's haffet squattle ; 
Where ye may creep, and sprawl, and sprattle 
Wi' itlier kindred, jumpin cattle. 

In shoals and nations ; 
Whare horn or bane ne'er dare unsettle 

Your thick piantations. 

Now liaud ye there, ye're out o' sight, 
Below the fiittVils, snug an' tight ; 
Na, faith ye yet ! ye'll no be right 

Till yc^e got on it, 
The vera tapmost, tow'ring height 

O' Miss's bonnet. 



My sooth ! right bauld ye set your nose out, 
As plump and gray as onie grozet ; 
O for some rank, mercurial rozet. 

Or fell, red smeddum, 
I'd gie you sic a hearty doze o't, 

Wad dress your droddum ! 

I wad na been surpris'd to spy 
You on an auld wife's flainen toy ; 
Or aiblins some bit duddie boy, 

On's wyliecoat ; 
iJut Miss's fine Lunnrdi ! fie. 

How dare ye d'ot ! 



O Jfuny^ dinna toss your head, 
An' set your beauties a' abroad I 
Ye little ken what cursed speed 

The blastie's makin ! 
Thae winks axidjinger-ends, I dread, 
Are notice takin ! 



O wad some pow'r the giftie gie us 
To see oursels as others see us .' 
It wad frae inonie a blunder free us 

And foolish notion : 
What airs in dress an' gait wad lea'e us, 

And ev'n Devotion ! 



ADDRESS TO EDINBURGH. 



I. 



Edina'. Srofia'i darling scat! 

All hail thy palaces and tow'rs. 
Where once beneath a monarch's feet 

Sat legislation's sov'reign pow'rs 1 



From marking wildly-scatterd flow'rs, 
As on the banks oi' Ayr I stray'd, 

And singing, lone, the ling'ring hoiu-s, 
I shelter in thy honour'd sliade. 

II. 



Here wealth still swells the golden tide, 

As busy trade his labours plies ; 
There architecture's noble pride 

Bids elegance and splendor rise ; 
Here justice, from her native skies. 

High wields her balance and her rod: 
There learning, with his eagle eyes, 

Seeks science in her coy abode. 

in. 



Thy Sons, Edina, social, kind, 

With open arms the stranger hail ; 
Their views enlarg'd, their lib'ral mind, 

Above the narrow, rural vale ; 
Attentive still to sorrow's wail, 

Or modest merit's silent claim ; 
And never may their sources fail I 

And never envy blot their name ! 

IV. 

Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn ! 

Gay as the gilded summer sky, 
Sweet as the dewy milk-white tliorn. 

Dear as the raptur'd thrill of joy 1 
Fair B strikes tli' adoring eye, 

Heav'n's beauties on my fancy shine ; 
I see the sire of love on high. 

And own lus work indeed divine ! 



V. 



There, watching lugh the least alarms, 

Thy rough, rude fortress gleams afar; 
Like some bold vet'ran, gray in arms. 

And mark'd with many a seamy scar 
The pond'rous walls and massy bar. 

Grim-rising o'er the rugged rock ; 
Have oft withstood assailing war, 

And oft repell'd the invader's shock. 



VI. 



With awe-struck thouglit, and pitying tearh 

I view that noble, stately dome, 
Wliore Scotici's kings of other years, 

Fani'd heroes 1 had their royal home : 
Alas ! how chang'd the times to come I 

Their royal name low in the dust! 
Tlieir hapless race wild-wand'ring roam ! 

Tho' rigid law cries out, 'twas just! 



BURNS' POEMS. 



51 



vn. 



WHd beats my heart to trace your steps, 

Wliose ancestors, in days of yore, 
Thro' hostile ranks and ruin'd gaps 

Old Scotia''s bloody lion bore : 
Ev'n / who sing in rustic lore, 

Haply my sires have left their shed, 
And fac'd grim danger's loudest roar, 

Bold-following where ijour fathers led I 

VIII. 

Edina ! Scotia's darling seat ! 

All hail thy palaces and tow'rs, 
Wherfj once beneath a monarch's feet 

Sat legislation's sov'reign pow'rs ! 
From marking wildly-scatter'd flow'rs, 

As on the banks of ^^t/r I stray 'd, 
And singing, lone, the ling'ring liours, 

I shelter in thy honoured shade. 



EPISTLE TO J I.APRATK, 



AN OLD SCOT", nil BARH. 

APRIL 1st, 1785. 

While briers and woodbines budding green, 
An' paitricks scraichin loud at e'en, 
An' morning poussie whic'.din seen, 

Inspire my muse, 
This freedom in an uvhiovm frien', 

I pray excuse. 

On fasten-een we had a rockin, 
To ca' the crack and weave our stockin ; 
And there was muckle fun an' jokin, 

Ye need na doubt ; 
At length we had a heart}' yokin 

At sang about. 

There was ae sang, amang tlie rest, 
Aboon them a' it pleased me best. 
That some kind husband had addrest 

To some sweet wife : 
It tliirl'J the heart-strings thro' the breast, 

A' to the life. 

I've scarce heard ought describes sae weel. 
What gen'rous, manly bosoms feel ; 
Thouglit I, " Can this be Pope, or Steele, 

Or Bcattie's wark !" 
They tald me 'twas an odd kind chiel 

About Muirkirk. 



It pat me fidgin-fain to hcar't, 
And sae about him there I spier't 



Then a' that ken't him'round declar'd 
He had ingine^ 

That nane excell'd it, few cam near't, 
It was sae fine. 

That set liim to a pint of ale. 
An' either douce or merry tale. 
Or rhymes an' sangs he'd made himsel, 
Or v/itty catches, 
'Tween Inverness and Tiviotdale, 

He had few matches. 



Then up I gat, an' swoor an' aith, 
Tho' I should pawn my plough and graith, 
Or die a cadger pownie's death, 

At some dyke-back, 
A pint an' gill I'd gie them baith 

To hear your crack. 

But, first an' foremost, I should tell, 
Amaist as soon as I could spell, 
I to the crambo-jingle fell, 

Tho' rude an' rough. 
Yet crooning to a body's sel. 

Does well enough. 

I am nae poet, in a sense. 
But just a rhymer, lilte, by chance. 
An' hae to learning nae pretence. 

Yet, what the m.atter? 
Whene'er my muse does on me glance, 

I jingle at her. 

Your critic-folk may cock their nose, 
And say, " How can you e'er propose. 
You wlia ken hardly verse fra.e prose. 

To mak a sang ? 
But, by your leaves, my learned foes, 

Ye're maybe wrang. 



What's a' your jargon o' your schools, 
Your Latin names for horns an' stools ; 
If honest nature made you fools. 

What sairs your grammars ! 
Ye'd better ta'en up spades and shools, 

Or knappin hammers. 



A set o' dull conceited hashes, 
Confuse tlteir brains in college classes ! 
They gang in stirks, and co7ne out asses. 

Plain truth to speak | 
An' syne they think to climb Parnassus 

By dmt o' Greek! 



Gie me ae spark o' Nature's fire. 
That's a' the learning I desire ; 
Then tho' I drudge thro' dub an' miro 

At pleiigli or cart. 
My muse, tho' hamely in attire, 

May touch the heart. 



53 BURNS' POEMS. 

O for a spunk o' Man's glee, 
Or Fergnssoii's, the bauld and sice, 
Or briglit Lapraik''s my friend to be, 

If I can liit it ! 
That would bo lear encugh for mc, 

If I could get it. 



Now, Sir, if ye hae friends enow, 
Tho' real friends, I b'lieve, are i^yr. 
Yet, if your catalogue be fou, 

I'so no insist. 
But gif ye want ae friend that's true, 
I'm on your list. 



I winna blaw about mysel ; 
As ill I like my fauts to tell ; 
But friends, and folk tliat wish mo well, 

Tliey sometimes rooso mc, 
Tho' I maun own, as monie still 

As far abuse me. 



There's ao weefaul they whylcs lay to me, 
I like the lassos — Gude forgie me ! 
For monie a plack they wheedle frao me. 

At dance or fair ; 
May be some ither thing they gio me 

They weel can spare. 



But Mauchline race, or Manchline fair, 
I siiould be proud to meet you tiiere ; 
Wo'se gie ae niglit's discliarge to care. 

If we forgather, 
An' hae a swap o' rJtymin-ware 

Wi' ane anither. 



The four-(Till chap, we'so gar him clatter. 
An' kirsen hnn wi' reekiii water ; 
Syne we'll sit down an' tak our whitter. 

To clicor our heart ; 
An' faith we'se be acquainted better 
Before we part. 



Awa, ye selfish warly race, 
Wlia tliiiik tliat bavins, sense, an' grace, 
Ev'n love an' friendship, should give j)lace 

To calch-lht-phuk ! 
I dinna hke to see your face, 

Nor liear you crack. 



But ye whom social pleasure charms, 
Whose heart the tide of kindness warms. 
Who hold your being on tho terms. 

Each aid the others'. 
Come to my bowl, come to my arms. 

My friends, my brothers ! 



But to conclude my lang epistle. 
As my auld pen's worn to llie grisslo 
Twa hues frae you wad gar me fissle. 

Who am, most fervent, 
While I can eitlier sin^ or wliissle. 

Your friend and servant. 



TO THE SAME. 



APRIL 21st, 1785 



While new-ca'd kye rout at the stake, 
An' pownies reek m. pleugii or braik. 
This hour on e'enin's edge I take, 

To own I'm debtor 
To honest-hearted, auld Lapraik, 

For his kind letter. 



Forjesket sair, with weary legs, 
Ratllin' the corn out-owre the rigs, 
Or dealing thro' amaiig the naigs 

Their ten-hours' bite, 
My awkart muse sair pleads and bc^s 

1 would na wnte. 



The tapetless ramfeezl'd hizzie, 
She's saft at best, and soniotliing lazy. 
Quo' she, "Ye ken, we've been sae busy. 

This month an' mair. 

That trouth my head is grown right dizzie 

An' sometliing sair." 



Her dowff excuses pat mo mad ; 
" Conscience," says 1, " 3'e thowless jad ! 
I'll write, an' that a hearty blaud, 

This vera night ; 
So dinna ye affront your trade, 

Biit rhyme it right. 



" Shall bauld Lapraik, the king o' hearts, 
TIio' mankind were a pack o' cartes, 
Roose you sae weel for your deserts, 

In terms so friendly 
Y«t ye'll neglect to shaw your parts, 

An' thank him kindly ' 



Sae I gat paper in a blink. 
An' down gaed stianpie in the ink : 
Quoth I, " Before I sleep a wink, 

1 vow rU close it; 
An' if ye winna mak it clink. 

By Jove I'll prose it !' 



BURNS' POEMS. 



63 



Sae IVc begun to scrawl, 1ml wliclhcr 
In rliyme or prose, or baith llieifiUicr, 
Or aomo hotch-potch that's rigiitly iicitlier, 

Let time inak' proof; 
But I shall scribble down some blether 

Just clean atF-loof. 



My worthy friend, ne'er grudirc an' carp, 
Tiio' fortune use you liard an' sharp ; 
Come, kittle up your moorland harp 

Wi' gleesome touch ! 
Ne'er mind how fortune iraft an' wurp : 

She's but a b-tch. 



She's g'lcn me monic a jirt an' fleg, 
Sin' I could striddle owre a rig ; 
But, by the L — d, Iho' I shotild beg 

Wi' lyart ])ow, 
I'll laugh, an' sing, an' shake my leg, 
As lana's I dow I 



Now comes the sax an' twentieth simmer 
I've seen the bud upo' the timmer, 
Still persecuted by the limmer 

Frae year to year ; 
But yet, despite the kittle kimuier, 
/, Rub^ am here. 



Do ye envy the city Gent, 
Rehint a kist to lie and sklent, 
Or purse-proud, big wi' cent, per cent. 

And muckle wame, 
In some bit brugh to represent 

A Bailie's name ? 



Or is't the paughty feudal Thane, 
Wi' ruffl'd sark an' glancin' cane, 
Wha thinks himsel nae sheep shank bane, 

But lordly stalks, 
Wliile caps and bonnets aff are ta'en, 

As by he walks? 



" O Thou wha gies us each guid gift ! 
Gio me o' wit an' sense a lift. 
Then turn me, if Thou please, adrift. 

Thro' Scotland wide; 
Wi' cits nor lairds I wadna shift, 

In a' their pride !" 



Were this the charier of our state, 
" On pain o' hell be rich an' great," 
Damnation then would be our fate, 

Beyond remcad ; 
But, thanks to Ilcav'u! that's no the gate 

We learn our creed. 



For thus the royal mandate ran, 
When first the human race began, 
" The social, friendly, honest man, 

Whate'er he be, 
'Tis he fulfils great J^alure''s plan. 

An' none but he .'" 



O mandate glorious and divine! 
The rag;.'i'd Ibllowcrs of the Nine, 
Poor, tiioughtless devils ! yet may shine 

In glorious light. 
While sordid sons of Mammon's lino 
Are dark as night. 



Tho' here they scrape, an' squeeze, an ' growl, 
Their worthless nievefu' of a soul 
May in some future carcase howl, 

The forest's fright ; 
Or in some day-detesting owl 

May shun the light. 



Then may Laprazfc and Burns arise. 
To reach their native, kindred skies, 
And sing tlieir pleasures, hopes, an' joys, 

In some mild sphere. 
Still closer knit in friendship's tie 

Each passing year. 



TO W. S ***** N 

OCHILTREE. 



May, 1783. 



I GAT your letter, winsome Willie ; 
Wi' gratefu' heart I thank you brawlie; 
Tho' I maun say't, I wad be silly, 
An' unco vain, 
Should I believe my coaxin' bilhe. 

Your flatterin strain. 



But I'se believe ye kindly meant it, 
I Slid be laith to think ye hinted 
Ironic satire, sidelin's sklented 

On my poor Musie ; 
Tho' in sic plu-asin' terms ye've penn'd it 

I scarce excuse yo. 



My senses wad be in a creel 
Should I but dare a hope to speel 
Wi' Allan, or wi' Gilberlfie.ld, 

The braes o' fame ; 
Or Fergusson, the writer-chiel 

A deathless name. 



54 



BURNS' POEMS. 



(O Fcrg-Jisson .' thy glorious parts 
ni suited law's dry, musty arts ! 
My curse upon your vvhunstane hearts, 

Ye Enbrugh Gentry! 
The tytho o' vvliat ye waste at cartes, 

Wad stow'd his pantry !) 



Yet when a tale comes i' my head, 
Or lasses gie my heart a screed, 
As wliyles they're like to be my deed, 

(O sad disease !) 
I kittle up my ruslic reed ; 

It gics me ease. 



Auld Coila now may fidge fu' fain, 
She's gotten Poets o' her ain, 
Chiels wha their chanters winna hain, 

But tune their lays, 
Till echoes a' resound again 

Her weel-sung praise.' 



Nao poet thought her worth his while, 
To set her name in measur'd style ; 
She lay Uke some unkenn'd-of isle 

Beside JVoc Holland, 
Or whare wild-meeting oceans boil 

Besouth Magellan. 



Ramsay an' famous Fergtisson 
Gied Forlh an' Tay a lift aboon ; 
Yarrow an' Tweed to nionie a tune, 

Owre Scotland rings, 
While Irwin, Liigar, Jltjr, an' Doon, 

Nae body sings. 



Th' niisaus, Tiber, Tluimes, an' Seine, 
Glide sweet in monie a tunefu' hne ! 
But, Willie, set your fit to mine. 

An cock your crest, 
We'll gar our streams and burnies sliine 

Up wi' the best. 



We'll sing auld CoiIa''s plains an' fells, 
Her moors red-brown wi' heatlier bells, 
Her banks an' braes, her dens and dells, 

Where glorious Wallace 
Aft bare the gree, as story tells, 

Frae southron billies. 



At Wallace'' name what Scottish blood 
But boils up in a spring-tide flood ! 
Oft have our fearless falliers strode 

By Jf'allace'' side. 
Still pressmg onward, red-wat-shod, 

Or glorious dy'd. 



O, Sweet are Coila"! haughs an' woods, 
Wlien lintwliites chant amang the buds, 
And jinldn hares, in amorous whids. 

Their loves enjoy, 
While tlu'o' the braes the cushat croods 

With wailfu' cry 1 

Ev'n winter bleak has charms for me 
Wlien winds rave thro' the naked tree ; 
Or frosts on hills of Ochiltree 

Are hoary gray ; 
Or blinding drifts wild-furious Hee, 

Dark'nLng tlie day ! 

O J^ature J a' thy shows an' forms 
To feeling, pensive hearts hae charms ! 
Whether the simmer kindly warms, 

Wi' life an' hght. 
Or winter hov/ls, in gusty storms, 

The lang, dark night 1 

The Muse, nae poet ever fand her, 
Till by himsel. he learn'd to wander, 
Adown some trotting burn's meander, 

An' no think lang ; 
O sweet I to stray, an' pensive ponder 

A heart-felt sang I 

The warly race may drudge an' drive, 
Hog-siioulher, jundie, stretch, an' strive. 
Let me fair jyalure''s face descrive. 

And 1, wi' pleasure. 
Shall let the busy, grumbling hive 

Bum owre their treasure. 



Fareweel, " my rhyme-composing brither '. 
We've been owre lang uiikenn'd to ilher : 
Now let us lay our heads thcgither, 

In love fraternal : 
May Envy wallop in a tether, 

Black fiend, infernal ! 

While higlilandmen hate tolls and taxes ; 
While moorlan' lierds like guid fat braxies : 
While terra firma, on her axis 

Diurnal turns. 
Count on a friend, in faith an' practice, 
In Robert Burns, 



POSTSCRIPT. 

My memory's no worth a preen ; 
I had amaisl forgotten clean, 
Ye bade me write you wiiat they mean 

By this Mw-Light,'* 
'Bout which our herds sae aft hae beea 

Maist like to fight. 

* See note, page 18. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



In days when mankind were but callans 
At grnmmar, l(/u;ic. an' sic talents. 
They larik nae pains their speecli to balance, 

Or rules to gic, 
But spak tlieir thoughts in plain, braid lallans, 

Like you or me. 

In fliae auld times, they tlioughtthe moon, 
Just like a sark, or pair o' slioon, 
Wore by degrees, till lier last roon, 

Gacd past their viewing, 
An' shortly after she was done, 

They gat a new one. 

This past for certain, undisputed ; 
It ne'er cam i' their heads to doubt it, 
Till cliiels gat up an' wad confute it, 

An' ca'd it wrang ; 
An' muckle din there was about it, 

Baith loud and lang. 



Some herds, weel leam'd upo' the beuk, 
Wad threap auld folk the thing misteuk ; 
For 'twas the auld moon tum'd a neuk, 
An' out o' sight, 
An' backlins-comin, to the Icuk, 

She grew mair bright. 

This was deny'd, it was affirm 'd ; 
The herds an' liisscls were alarm'd : 
The rev'rend gray-beards rav'd an' storm'd, 

That beardless laddies 
Should think they better were inform'd 

Than their auld daddies. 



Frae less to mair it gaed to sticks ; 
F/ae words an' aiths to clours an' nicks ; 
An' monie a fallow gat his licks, 

Wi' hearty crunt ; 
An' some, to learn them for their tricks. 

Wore hang'd an' burnt. 

This game was play'd in monie lands, 
An' auld-Ughl caddies bure sic hands. 
That faith the youngsters took the sands 
Wi' nimble shanks. 
The lairds forbade, by strict commands, 
Sic bluidy pranks. 

But neip-lighl herds gat sic a cowe, 
Folk thought them ruin'd stick-an'-stowc. 
Till now amaist on evVy knowe, 

Ye'll find ane plac'd ; 
An' some, their new-light fair avow. 

Just quite barcfac'd. 

Nac doubt the auld-Ughl flocks are bleatin ; 
Their zealous herds are vex^'d an' sweatin ; 
JTysel, I've even seen them greetin 

Wi' girnin spite. 
To heal tlie moon sae sadly lie'd on 

Bv word an' write. 



But shortly they will cowe the loims . 
Some auld-light herds in noebor tr)\viis 
Are mind't, in tilings they ca' halloims. 

To tak a flight. 
An' stay a month amang the moons 

All' see them riirht. 



Guid observation they will gie them ; 
An' when the auld moons gaun to Ica'o them, 
The hindmost siiaird, they'll fetch it wi' them, 

Just i' their pouch. 
An' when the new-light billies see them, 

I think they'll crouch ! 

Sae, ye observe that a' this clatter 
Is naething but a" moonshine matter;" 
But tho' dull prose-folk Latin si)Iatter 

In logic tulzie, 
I hope, we bardies ken some belter 

Than mind sic brulzie. 



EPLSTLE TO J. R****** 



ENCLOSING SOME POEMS, 



O ROUGH, rude, ready-witted R******, 
The wale o' cocks for fun an' drinliin I 
'I'here's mony godly folks arc thinkin. 

Your dreams*' an' tricks 
Will send you, Korah-like, a-sirikin, 

Strauirht to auld Nick's, 



Ye hae sae monie cracks an' cants. 
And in your wicked drucken rants, 
Ye mak a devil o' the saunts, 

An' fill them fou ; 
And then their failings, flaws, an' wants, 
Are a' seen thro'. 



Hypocrisy, in mercy spare it ! 
That holy robe, O dinna tear it ! 
Spare 't for their sakes wha aflen wear it. 

The lads in black ! 
But your curst wit, wlien it comes near it, 
Rives 't aff their back. 



Think, wicked sinner, wha ye'ro skaithuigf, 
Its just the blue-gown badge an' claithing 
O' saunts ; tak tliat, ye Ica'e them naething 

To ken them by, 
Frae ony unregcnerate heathen 

Like you or I. 

* A certain humorous dream of his was tlien niaJ<ing 
a noitie in tlic country-side. 



66 



BURNS' POEMS. 



Fve sent you home some rh)rming ware, 
A' that I bargained for an' mair ; 
Sae, when ye hae an hour to spare, 

1 will expect 
Yon sang,* ye'il sen't wi' cannie care, 

And no neijlect. 



Tho' faith, sm a' heart hae I to sing ! 
My muse dow scarcely spread her wing ! 
I've play'd mysel a bonnie spring. 

An' danc'd my fill ! 
I'd better gane an' sair'd the king, 

At Bunker'' s Hill. 



'Twas ae night lately in my fun, 
I gaed a roving wi' the gun. 
An' brought a paUrick to the grun, 

A bonnie hen, 
And, as the twilight was begun, 

Thousjht nane wad ken. 



The poor wee thing was little hurt ; 
I straikit it a wee for sport. 
Ne'er thinkin they wad fash me for't ; 

But, deil-ma-caro S 
Somebody tells the poacher-court 

Tlie hale affair. 



Some auld us'd hands had ta'en a note, 
That sic a hen had got a shot ; 
I was suspected for the plot ; 

I scorn'd to lie ; 
So gat the wliissle o' my groat, 

An' pay't the fee. 



But, by my gun, o' guns the wale, 
An' by my pouther an' my hail. 
An' by my hen, an' by lier tail, 

I vow an' swear ! 
The game shall pay o'er moor an' dale. 

For tliis, niest year. 

As soon's tiie clockin-time is by, 
An' the wee pouts begun to cry, 
L — d, I'se hae sporlin by an' by. 

For my gowd guinea ; 
Tho' I should herd the buckskin kye 

For't m Virginia. 



Trowth, they Iiad muckle for to blame ! 
'Twas neilJior broken wing nor limb, 
But twa-three draps about the wamo 

Scarce thro' the feathers; 
An' baith a yellow George to claim. 

An thole their blethers ! 



It pits mo ay as mad's a hare ; 
So I can rhyme nor write nae mair ; 

• A aoiiff lie had promised the Author. 



But pennywortJis again is fair. 

When time's expedient : 
Meanwhile I am, respected Sir, 

Your most obedient. 



JOHN BARLEYCORN,* 



A BALLAD. 



I. 



There were three kings into the east, 
Three kings both great and high. 

An' they hae sworn a solemn oath 
John Barleycorn should die. 



II. 



They took a plough and plough'd liini down. 

Put clods upon his head. 
And they hae sworn a solemn oath 

Jolm Barleycorn was dead. 

HI. 

But tlio cheerful spring came kindly on 

And showr's began to fall ; 
John Barleycorn got up again, 

And sore surprised them all. 

IV. 

Tho sultry suns of summer came, 

And lie grew thick and strong, 
His head weel arm'd wi' pointed Bpears> 

That no one should him wrong. 



The sober autumn enter'd mild, 
When he grew wan and pale ; 

His bending joints and drooping head 
Show'd he began to fail. 

VI. 

His colour sicken'd more and more, 

lie faded into age ; 
And then his enemies began 

'I'o show their deadly rage. 

vn. 

They've ta'en a weapon long and sharp, 

And cut him by the knee ; 
Then ty"d him fast upon a cart. 

Like a rogue for forgerie. 

• This is partly composed on the plan of an old song 
known by the same name. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



57 



vin. 

They laid him c'own upon liis back, 
And cudgeird liim full sore ; 

They hung him up before the storm, 
And turned liim o'er and o'er. 

IX. 



They filled up a darksome pit 
With water to the brim, 

They heaved, in John Barleycorn, 
There let him sink or swim. 



X. 



They laid him out upon the floor. 
To work him fartlier wo, 

And still, as signs of life appeared, 
They toss'd him to and fro. 

XI. 



They wasted, o'er a scorching flame, 

The marrow of his bones ; 
But a mUler us'd him worst of all. 

For he crush'd liim between two stones. 



XIL 

And they hae ta'en his very heart's blood, 
And drank it round and round ; 

And still the more and more they drank, 
Tlieir joy did more abound. 



XIIL 



John Barleycorn was a hero bold. 

Of noble enterprise. 
For if you do but taste his blood, 

'Twill make your courage rise. 



XIV. 



'Tvnll make a man forget his wo ; 

'Twill heighten all his joy : 
'Twill make the widow'** heart to sing, 

Tho' tlie tear were in her eye. 

XV. 



Then let us toast John Barleycorn, 
Each man a glass in hand ; 

And may his great posterity 
Ne'er fail in old Scotland ! 
E2 



A FRAGMENT. 



Tune—" Gillicrankie." 



I. 



When Guilford good our pilot stood, 

And did our helm thraw, man, 
Ae night, at tea, began a pica. 

Within Jlmcrica, man : 
Then up they gat the maskin-pat, 

And in the sea did jaw, man ; 
An' did nae less, in full congress. 

Than quite refuse our law, man. 



II. 



Then thro' the lakes Montgomery 

I wat he was na slaw, man ; 
Down Lowries burn he took a turn. 

And Carlelon did ca', man : 
But yet, what reck, he, at (Quebec, 

Montgomery-like did fa', man, 
Wi' sword in hand, before his band, 

Amang his en'niies a', man. 

m. 

Poor Tammy Gage, within a cage 

Was kept at Boston ha\ man ; 
Till TViUle Howe took o'er the knowo 

For Philadelphia, man : 
Wi' sword an' gun he thought a sin 

Guid christian blood to draw, man ; 
But at Kew-Yoi fc, wi' knife an' fork, 

Sir-loin he hacked sma', man. 

IV. 

Bnrgoyne gaed up, like spur an' whip. 

Till Frascr brave did fa', man ; 
Then lost his way, ae misty day. 

In Saratoga shaw, man. 
Corrmallii. fought as lang's he dought, 

An' did the buckskins claw, man ; 
But Clintons glaive frae rust to save. 

He hung it to the wa', man. 



V. 



Then Montague, an' Guilford too, 

Began to fear a fa', man ; 
And Sackville doure, wha stood the stoure, 

The Crcrman chief to thraw, man : 
For Paddy Burke, like ony Turk. 

Nae mercy had at a', man ; 
And Charlie Fox threw by the box, 

An' lows'd his tinlilcr jaw man. 



53 



BURNS' POEMS. 



VI. 



Tlien RocM7is:ham took up the game ; 

Till death did on him ca', man ; 
When Shelbume meek held up his cheek, 

Conform to gospel law, man ; 
Saint Stephen's boys, wi' jarring noise, 

They did his measures thravv, maiii 
For Korlh an' Fox united stocks, 

All' bore liim to the wa', man. 

VII. 

Then clubs an' hearts were Charlie's cartes, 

He swept the stakes awa', man, 
Till the diamond's ace, o^ Indian race, 

Led him a sair/rt({,r /ws, man : 
The Saxon lads, wi' loud placads. 

On Chalham''s bnij did ca', man ; 
An' Scotland drew her pipe an' blew, 

" Up, Willie, waur them a', man 1" 

vm. 

Behind the throne then Grenville's gone, 

A secret word or twa, man ; 
While slee Dundas arous'd the class 

Be-north tlie Roman wa', man : 
An' Chatham's wraith, in heavenly graith, 

(Inspired bardies saw, man) 
Wi' kindling eyes cry'd, " JVillie, rise ! 

Would I hae foar'd them a', man ?" 

IX. 

But, word an' blow, Jforth, Fox, and Co. 

Gowff'd JVillie like a ba,' man, 
Till Suthron raise, and coost their claise 

Behind him in a raw, man ; 
An' Caledo7i threw by the drone, 

An' did her whittle draw, man ; 
An' swoor lu' rude, thro' dirt an' blood 

To make it guid in law man. 



SONG. 

Tune — " Corn rigs are bonnie." 
I. 

It was upon a Lammas night, 

When corn rigs are bonnie. 
Beneath the moon's unclouded light, 

I held awa to Annie : 
The time (Ivw by wi' tentless heed. 

Till 'tween the laic and early ; 
^^'i' sma' persuasion she agreed. 

To see me thro' the barley. 



IT. 



The sky was blue, the wind was still, 

The moon w.as shining clearly ; 
I set her down, wi' right good will, 

Amang the rigs o' barley : 
I kenn't her heart was a' my ain ; 

I lov'd her most sincerely ; 
I kiss'd her owre and owre again 

Amang the rigs o' barley. 

m. 

I lock'd lier in my fond embrace ; 

Her heart was beating rarely : 
My blessings on that happy place, 

Amang the rigs o' barley ! 
But by tiie moon and stars so bright, 

That shone that hour so clearly 
She ay shall bless that happy night, 

Amang the rigs o' barley. 

VI. 

I hae been blythe wi' comrades dear; 

I hae been merry drinkin ; 
I hae been joyfu' gathrin gear ; 

I hae been happy tiiinkin : 
But a' the pleasures e'er I saw, 

Tho' three times doubled fairly, 
That happy night was worth them »' 

Amang tlie rigs o' barley. 



Corn rigs, an'' barley rigs, 
Jin' corn rigs are bonnie : 

ril ne!'cr forget that happy night, 
Amang the rigs wi' Annie. 



SONG. 

COMPOSED IN AUGUST, 

Tune — " I had a horse I had nae mair." 

I. 

Now wcstlin winds, and slaught'ring guns 

Bring autumn's pleasant weather ; 
The moorcock springs, on whirring wings, 

Amang the blooming heather ; 
Now waving grain, wide o'er the plain. 

Delights the weary farmer ; [niglit, 

And the moon shines bright, when I rove at 

To muse upon my charmer. 

IL 

The partridge loves the fruitful foils ; 

The plover loves the mountains ; 
Tlie woodcock haunts the lonely dells; 

The soaring hem the fountains : 



BURNS' POEMS. 



59 



Thro' lofty grovos the cushat roves, 
The paih of man to shun it ; 

The hazel bush o'crhangs the thrush, 
The spreading thorn the Unnet. 

m. 

Thus ev'ry kind their pleasure find, 

The savage and tJie tender ; 
Some social join, and leagues combine; 

Some solitary wander : 
Avaunt, away ! the cruel sway. 

Tyrannic inan's dominion ; 
The sportsman's joy, the murd'ring cry, 

The flutt'ring, gory pinion ! 

IV. 

But Pess:y dear, the ev'ning's clear, 

Tliick riies the skimming swallow ; 
The sky is blue, the fields in view. 

All fading-green and yellow : 
Come let us stray our gladsome way, 

And view the charms of nature ; 
The rustling corn, tlie fruited thorn, 

And every happy creature. 

V. 

We'll gently walk, and sweetly talk, 

Till the silent moon shine clearly; 
I'll grasp thy waist, and, fondly prest. 

Swear how I love tiiee dearly : 
Not vernal show'rs to budding flow'rs. 

Not autum to the farmer, 
So dear can be as thou to me. 

My fair, my lovely cliarmer.' 



SONG. 



Tune—" My Nannie, O." 



I. 



Behind yon hills where Lugar* flows, 
'Mang moors arid mosses many, O 

The wintry sun the day has clos'd, 
And I'll awa to Nannie, O. 

n. 

The westlin wind blaws loud an' shill ; 

The night's bailh mirk an' rainy, O ; 
But rU get my plaid, an' out I'll steal, 

An' owro the hills to Nannie, O. 

• Originally, Stincliar. 



III. 



My Nannie's charming, sweet, an' young: 
Nao artfu' wiles to win ye, O : 

May ill befa' the flattering tongue 
That wad beguile my iNaruiio, O. 

IV. 

Her face is fair, her heart is true. 
As spotless as she's bonnie, O : 

The op'ning gowan, wet wi' dew, 
Nae purer is than Nannie, O. 

V. 

A country lad is my degree, 

An' few there be that ken me, O ; 

But what care I how fcvf they be, 
I'm welcome ay to Nannie, O. 

VI. 

My riches a' 's my penny-fee, 
An' I maun guide it cannio, O ; 

But warl's gear ne'er troubles me. 
My thoughts are a' my Nannie, O. 

vn. 

Our auld Guidman delights to view 
His sheep an' kye thrive bonnie, O ; 

But I'm as blythe that bauds his plough, 
An' has nae care but Nannie, O. 

VIII. 

Come weel, come wo, I care na by, 
I'll tak what I leav'n will sen' me, O ; 

Nae ither care in life have I, 

But live, an' love my Nannie, O. 



GREEN GROV^^ THE RASHES 



A FRAGMENT. 



Green grow the rashes, O ! 

Green grow Ike rashes, ! 
The sweetest hours that e'er I spend, 

Are spent amang the lasses, O ! 



I. 



There' nought but care on ev'ry ban , 

In ev'ry hour that passes, O ; 
What signifies the life o' man, 

An' 'twere na for the lasses, O. 

Green grmu^ &c. 



60 



BURNS' POEMS. 



n. 



The warly race may riches chase, 
An" riches still may fly them, O ; 

An' tho' at last they catch them fast. 
Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, O. 

Green grow, Sec, 

m. 

But gie me a canny hour at e'en. 

My arms about my dearie, O ; 
An' warly cares, an' warly men, 

May a' gae tapsalteerie, O ! 

Green grow. Sec. 



IV 



For you sae douse, ye sneer at this, 
Ye'er nought but senseless asses, O : 

The wisest man the warl' e'er saw, 
He dearly lov'd the lasses, O. 

Green grow, &c. 



V. 



Auld Nature swears, the lovely dears 
Her noblest work she classes, O : 

Her 'prentice han' she try'd on man. 
An' then she made the lasses, O. 

Green grow, kc 



SONG. 

Tune — " Jockey's Grey Breeks.* 
I. 

Again rejoicing nature sees 

Her robe assume its vernal hues. 
Her leafy locks wave in the breeze, 

All fresUy steep'd m mornhig dews. 

CHORUS.* 

And maun I slill on Meniei dnat. 
And bear the scorn that's in her e'e.? 

For it's jet Jet black, an' it's like a hawk. 
An' it winna let a body be I 

I. 

In vain to me the cowslips blaw, 

In vain to me the vi'lets spring ; 
In vain to me, in glen or shaw. 

The mavis and tlie hiitwhite sing. 

And maun I still, Sec. 

• Tliisctiorusis partof a song composed by a gentleman 
In Edinburgh, a particular friend of the author's, 
t Mcnte is the co-uinion abbreviation of Mariamne. 



m. 



The merry ploughboy cheers his team, 
Wi' joy the tentie seedsman stalks, 

But life to me 's a weary dream, 
A dream of ane-that never wauks. 

And maun I slill. See, 

IV. 

The wanton coot the water skims, 
Amang the reeds the ducklings cry. 

The stately swan majestic swims, 
And every thing is blest but I. 

And maun I still. Sec, 



V. 



The sheep-herd steeks his faulding slap. 
And owre the moorlands whistles shill, 

Wi' wild, unequal, wand'ring step 
I met him on the dewy hill. 

And maun I still, &c, 

VI. 

And when the lark, 'tween light and darli, 
Blythe waukcns by the daisy's side. 

And mounts and sings on flittering wings, 
A wo-worn ghaist 1 hameward glide. 

And maun I still. Sec 

VII. 

Come, Winter, with thine angry howl. 
And raging bend the naked tree ; 

Thy gloom will soothe my cheerless soul, 
When nature all is sad like me 1 



And maun I still on Menie doat. 

And bear the scorn that's in her e'e? 

For it's jet, jet black, an' it's like a hawk. 
An* it winna let a body be.* 



SONG 

Tune—" Roslin Castle." 

I. 

The gloomy night is gath'ring fast, 
Loud roars the wild inconstant blast. 
Yon murky cloud is foid with rain, 
I see it driving o'er the plaiii ; 

* We cannot presume to alter any of the poems ol 
our bard, and more especially tlio«e printed under his 
own direction ; yet it is to be regretted that this chorus, 
which is not of his own composition, should be at- 
tached to these fine stanzas, as it perpetually interrupu 
the train of sentiment which they excite. E. 



BURNS' rOEMS. 



Tlio hunter now has Icfl the moor, 
Tlio scatter'd coveys meet secure, 
While here 1 wander, prest with care, 
Aloug the lonely banks of Ayr. 



n. 



The Autumn mourns her rip'ning corn 
By early Winter's ravage torn ; 
Across her placid, azure sky, 
She sees the scowling- tempest fly ; 
Chill runs my blood to hear it rave, 
I think upon the stormy wave, 
^Vhere many a danger I must dare. 
Far from the bomiie banks of Aijt. 

in. 

'Tis not the surging billow's roar, 
'Tis not that fatal deadly shore ; 
Tlio' death in every shape appear. 
The wretched have no more to fear : 
15ut round my heart the ties are bound, 
That heart transpierced with many a wound ; 
These bleed afresh, those ties I tear, 
I'o leave tlie bonnie banks of Aur. 

IV. 

Farewell, old CoiJa's hills and dales, 
Her heathy moors and winding vales ; 
The scenes where wretched fancy roves, 
Pursuinsf past, unhappy loves ! 
Farewell, my friends ! Farevv^ell, my foes I 
My peace with these, my love with those— 
The bursting tears my heart declare 
Farewell the bonnie banks oi Ayr. 



SONG 



Tune—" Guilderoy." 
I. 

From thee, Eliza, I must go, 

And from my native shore ; 
The cruel fates between us throw 

A boundless ocean's roar : 
But boundless oceans, roaring wide. 

Between my love and me, 
They never, never can divide 

My heart and soul from thee. 

II. 

Farewell, farewell, Elisa dear, 

Tiie maid that I adore ! 
A boding voice is in mine ear, 

We pari to meet no more ! 



But the last throb that leaves my heart, 
While death stands victor by, 

That throb, Eliza, is thy part, 
And tliine the latest sigh ! 



THE FAREWELL 

TO THE 

BRETHREN OF ST. JAMES'S LODGE 

TARBOLTON. 

Tune — " Good night and joy bo wi' you a' 5' 

L 

Adieu ! a heart-warm, fond adieu ! 

Dear brothers of the mystic tye .' 
Ye favoured, ye enlighlerid ?ew. 

Companions of my social joy I 
Tho' I to foreign lands must hie. 

Pursuing Fortune's slidd'ry ba', 
With melting heart, and brunful eye, 

I'll mind you still, tho' far awa.' 

n. 

Oft have I met your social band, 

And spent the cheerful, festive night ; 
Oft, honour'd with supreme command, 

Presided o'er the «ons of light : 
And by that hieroglyphic bright. 

Which none hwi craftsmen ever saw! 
Strong mem'ry on my heart shall write 

Those happy scenes when far awa.' 

m. 

May freedom, harmony, and love, 

tJnite us in the grand design, 
Beneath th' omniscient eye above, 

The glorious architect divine ! 
That you may keep th' unerring line, 

Still rising by the plummet^s law, 
Till order bright completely shine, 

Shall be my pray'r when far awa'. 

IV. 

And you farewell ! whose merits claim. 

Justly, that highest badge to wear ! 
Heav'n bless your honour'd, noble name, 

To Masonry and Scotia dear I 
A last request permit me here, 

AVhen yearly ye assemble a'. 
One roviul, 1 ask it with a tear. 

To liim, the Bard thaCs far awa*. 



62 



BURNS' POEMS. 



SONG. 

Tune — " Prepare, my dear brethren, to the 
Tavern let's fly." 

I. 

No churchman am T for to rail and to write, 
No statesman nor soldier to plot or to fight, 
No sly man of business contriving a snare. 
For a big-belly 'd bottle's tlie whole of my care. 

II. 

The peer I don't envy, I give him hi-s bow ; 
I scorn not the peasant, though ever so low ; 
But a club of good fellows, like those that are 

hero, 
And a bottle like this, are my glory and care. 

ni. 

Here passes the squire on his brother — his 

horse; 
There centum per centum, the cit, with his 

purse ; 
But see you the Cmim how it waves in the air, 
There, a big-belly'd bottle still ceases my care. 

IV. 

The wife of my bosom, alas ! she did die ; 
For sweet consolation to church I did fly ; 
I found that old Solomon proved it fair. 
That a big-belly'd bottle's a cure for all care. 



V. 



I once was persuaded a venture to make ; 
A letter inform'd me that all was to wreck ; — 
But the pursy old landlord just waddled up 

stairs. 
With a glorious bottle that ended my cares. 



VI. 



* Life's cares they are comforts,"* — a maxim 

laid down 
By the bard, what d'ye call him that wore the 

black gown ; 
And faith I agree with th' old prig to a hair ; 
For a big-beliy'd bottle's a heav'n of care. 

A Stanza added in a Mason Lodge. 

Then fdl up a bumper and make it o'erflow. 
And honours masonic prepare for to throw ; 
May every true brother of the compass and 

square 
Have a bic-bclly'd bottle when harass'd with 

care. 

■• Yeuna'* Night Thoughts. 



WRITTEN IN 



FRIARS-CARSE HERMITAGE, 

ON NITH-SIDE. 



Thou whom chance may hither lead, — 
Be tliou clad in russet weed. 
Be thou deckt in silken stole, 
Grave these counsels on thy soul. 

Life is but a day at most, 
Sprung from night, in darkness lost ; 
Hope not sunshine ev'ry hour, 
Fear not clouds will always lower. 

As youth and love with sprightly danca, 
Beneath thy morning star advance, 
Pleasure with her siren air 
May delude the thoughtless pair ; 
Let prudence bless enjoyment's cup, 
Then raptur'd sip, and sip it up. 

As thy day grows warm and high, 
Life's meridian flaming nigh. 
Dost thou spurn the humble vale ? 
Life's proud summit wouldst thou scale ? 
Check thy climbing step, elate. 
Evils lurk in felon wait : 
Dangers, eagle-pinion'd, bold. 
Soar around each cliffy hold. 
While cheerful peace, with linnet songt 
Chants the lowly dells among. 

As the shades of ev'ning close, 
Beck'ning thee to long repose ; 
As life itself becomes disease, 
Seek the chininey-neuk of ease. 
There ruminate with sober thought. 
On aU thou'st seen, and heard, and wrought 
And teach the sportive younkers round, 
Saws of experience, sage and sound. 
Say, man's true, genuine estimate, 
The grand criterion of his fate. 
Is not, Art thuu so high or low ? 
Did thy fortime ebb or flow ? 
Did many talents gild thy span ? 
Or frugal nature grudge thee one ? 
Tell them, and press it on their mind, 
As thou thyself must shortly find, 
The smile or frown of awful Heav'n 
To virtue or to vice is giv'n. 
Say, to be just, and kind, and wise, 
There solid self-enjoyment lies ; 
That foolish, selfish, faithless ways, 
Lead to the wretched, vile, and base. 

Thus resign'd and quiet, creep 
To the bed of lasting sleep ; 
Sleep, wlience thou shalt ne'er awake. 
Night, where dawn shall never break. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



es 



Till future life, future no more, 
To light and joy tlie good restore, 
To liijht and joy unknown before. 

Stranger, go I Heav'n be thy guide ! 
Quod the beadsman of Nith-side. 



ODE, 

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OP 



MRS. 



OF 



Dweller in yon dungeon dark, 
Hangman of creation ! mark 
Wlio in widow- weeds appears. 
Laden with unhonour'd years, 
Noosing with care a bursting purse, 
Baited witli many a deadly curse ! 



View the wither'd beldam's face- 
Can thy keen inspection trace 
Aught of humanity's sweet, melting grace ! 
Note that eye, 'tis rheuin overflows. 
Pity's flood there never rose. 
See those hands, ne'er stretch'd to save, 
Hands tliat took — but never gave. 
Keeper of Mannnon's iron chest, 
Lo, there slie goes, unpitied and unblest 
She goes, but not to realms of everlasting rest I 

ANTISTROniE. 



Plunderer of armies, lift thine eyes, 
(A while forbear, ye tortVing fiends,) 
Seest thou whose step unwilling hither bends 1 

No fallen angel, liurl'd from upper skies; 
'Tis tliy trusty qwindam inate, 
Doom'd to share thy fiery fate, 

She, tardv he"-vvard plies. 



»nd are they of no more avail. 
Ten thousand glittVing pounds a year? 

In other worlds can Alammon fail, 
Omnipotent as he is here ' 
O. bitter miick'ry of ihe pumpirus bter, 
Whilp down the wrolcned uuai part is driv'n! 
Tlie cave-lodg'd beggar, with a conscience 
clear, 
Czpures in rags unknown, and goes to 
Heav'n. 



ELEGY 



CAPT. MATTHEW HENDERSON, 

A GENTLEMAN WHO HELD THE PATENT FOR HIS 
HONOURS IMMEDIATELY FRC M ALMIGHTY GOD. 



But now liis radiant course is run, 
For Matthew's course was bright; 

His soul was lilte tlie glorious sun, , 

Ainatcliless, Heav'nly Light ! 

O DEATH ! thou tyrant fell and bloody ! 
The meikle devil wi' a woodie 
Haurl thee hamo to his black smiddie. 

O'er hurcheon hides, 
And like stock-fish come o'er his studdie 

\Vi' thy auld sides I 

He's gane, he's gane I he's frae us torn 
The ae best fellow e'er was born ! 
Thee, Matthew, Nature's sel shall mourr 

By wood and wild, 
"WTiere, haply, pity strays forlorn, 

Frae man exil'd. 

Ye hills, near neebors o' the stams, 
That proudly cock your cresting cairns ' 
Ye cliffs, the haunts of sailing yearns, 

^Vliore echo slumbers 
Come join, ye Nature's sturdiest bairns. 

My wailing numbers 1 

Mourn, ilk a grove the cushat kens ! 
Ye haz'lly shaws and briery dens ! 
Ye burnies, whunplin down your arlens, 

Wi' toddiin din. 
Or foaming Strang, wi, hasty stens, 
Frae lin to lin. 

Mourn little harebells o'er the lee ; 
Ye stately foxgloves fair to see ; 
Ye woodbines hanging bonnilie. 

In scented bow'rs; 
Ye roses on your thorny tree. 

The first o' flow'rs. 

At dawn, when ev'ry grassy blade 
Droops with a diamond at his head. 
At ev'n, when beans their fragrance shed, 

I' 111' rustling gale, 
Ye maukins whiddin thro' tlie glade. 
Come join my wail. 

Mourn, ye wee sonffsiers o' the wood; 
Ye grouse that crap the tmather t-)uci . 
Ye curlews calling thru a elud . 

Ye wliislhiiff olowew! 
And mourn, ye whirring paiirick orood ; 
He's gane for ever I 



64 



BURNS' POEMS. 



Motim, soofy coots, ami speckled teals, 
Yo fisher iierons, watcliiiiir eels; 
Yo duck and drake, wV airy wheels 

Circliiiir the lake ; 
Ye bitterns, till the quaofinire reels, 

Hair for his sake. 



IVIoiim, clam'ring cralks at close o' day, 
'Maiijf fields o' Howr'ing clover gay ; 
And when ye wing your annual way 

Frae our cauld shore. 
Toll thao far warlds, wha lies in clay. 

Wham wo deplore. 



Ye houlots, frao your ivy bowV, 
In some auld tree, or eldritch tow'r, 
What time the moon, wi' silent o-low'r, 

Sets up her horn, 
Woilthro' tlie dreary midnii;ht hour 

Till waulu-ifo mom! 



O rivers, forests, hills, and plains! 
on, have ye heard my canty strains : 
But now, what else for me remains ■ 

But tales of wo ; 

And frae my con the drajipino; rains 

Maun ever flow. 



Mourn, sprinnr, thou darlinof of theycar! 
Ilk cowslip cup sliall kep a te^ar: 
Thou, simmer, while each corny spear 
Shoots up its head. 
Tliy gay, green, flowVy tresses shear, 

For him tliat's dead ! 



Tliou, autumn, wi' thy yellow liair, 
In grief tliy sallow manile (ear! 
Thou, winter, hurliiiir thro' tlio air 

The roarino- blast. 
Wide o'er the naked world declare 

The worth we've lost I 



Mourn him, thou sun, ffreat source oflio-ht! 
Mourn, empress of the silent night! " 

And you, yo twinkling starniestbriirht, 

Mv Matthew mourn! 
For thro' your orbs he's ta'en his flight. 
Ne'er to return. 



O Henderson ; the man ! the brother ! 
And art thou gone, and yone for ever ! 
And hast thou crost that unknown river, 

Life's dreary hound! 
Like thee, where shall I find another. 

The world around ! 



Go to your sculptur'd tombs, ye Great, 
Li a' till! tinsel trash o' stale I 



But by tlie honest turf I'll wait. 

Thou man of worth ? 

And weep tlie ae best fellow's fate 
E'er lay in earth. 



THE EPITAPH. 

Sto?, passenger ! my story's brief; 

And truth I shairrelale, man ; 
I tell nao common tale o' grief. 

For Matthew was a great man. 

If thou uncommon merit hast, 

Yet spurn'd at fortune's door, man; 

A look of pity hither east. 

For Mattlicw was a poor man. 

If thou a noble sodger art. 

That passest by this grave, man. 

There moulders here a gallant heart. 
For Matthew was a brave man. 

If thou on men, their works and ways, 
Canst throw uncommon light, man; 

Here lies wha weel had won tliv praise, 
For Matthew was a bright nian. 

If thou at friendship's sacred ca' 
Wad life itself resign, man ; 

Thy sympathetic tear maun fa,' 
For JMatthew was a kind man ! 

If thou art staunch without a stair, 
Like the unchanging blue, man; 

This was a kmsman o' thy ain. 
For fllatthew was a true man. 

If thou hast wit, and fun, and fire, 
And ne'er giiid wine did fear, man; 

Thi^s was thy billie, dam, and sire. 
For JMatthew was a queer man. 

If ony whiggish whingin sot, 

Toblaine'poor Matthew dare, mKn> 

May dool and sorrow bo his lot. 
For Matthew was a rare man. 



LAMENT 



MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS, 

ON THE APrnOACH OF SPRING. 

Now nature b an o-s her mantle green 
On every blooming tree. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



65 



And sprondf! lior sheets o' daisies white 

Out o'er the {rrassy lea : 
Now Plmibiis chcors the crystal streams. 

And jrlads the a/uro skies; 
But noii^dit can triad the weary wight 

Tlial last in durance lies. 



Now lav'rocks wake the merry morn, 

Aloft on dewy winjr ; 
The merle, in las noontide how'r, 

Makes woodland echoes ring ; 
The mavis mild, wi' many a note, 

Sings dro\vsy day to rest : 
In love and freedom they rejoice, 

Wi' care nor tlirall opprest. 



Now blooms the lily by the bank, 

The primrose down the brae ; 
The hawthorn 's budding in the glen, 

And milk-white is the slao : 
The meanest hind in fair Scotland 

May rove their sweets amang ; 
But I, the Queen of a' Scotland, 

Maun lie in prison Strang. 



I was tlio Queen o' bonnio France, 

Whore happy I iiao been ; 
Fu' lightly raise I in the mom. 

As l)lythe lay down at e'on ; 
And Fm the sovereign of Scotland, 

And mony a traitor tiiero ; 
Yet iiere I lie in foreign bands. 

And never ending care. 



But as for thee, thou false woman. 

My sister and my fae, 
Grim vengeance, yet sliall whet a sword 

That thro' thy soul sliall gae : 
The weeping blood in woman's breast 

Was never known to thco ; 
Nor th' balm that draps on wounds of WO 

Frae woman's pitying e'e. 



My son ! my son ! may kinder stars 

Upon thy fortune shine ; 
And may tbose phsasures gild thy reign, 

Tbat ne'er wad blink on mine ! 
God keep tiiec frao thy mother's faes. 

Or turn their hearts to thee : 
And wJicre thou moet'st thy mother's friend. 

Remember hun for me ! 



O ! soon, to me, may summer-suns 

Nae mair light up the morn ! 
Nae mair, to me, the autumn winds 

Wave o'er the yellow corn ! 
And in tiie narrow house o' death 

Let winter round mo rave; 
And tiic next How'rs that deck the spring. 

Bloom on my peaceful giavo I 
F 



TO ROBERT GRAHAM, Esq., 



OF FINTRA. 



Late crippl'd of an arm, and now a leg, 
Al)out to beg a pass for leave to beg ; 
Dull, listless, teas'd, dejected, and deprcst, 
(Nature is adverse to a cripple's rest :) 
Will generous Graham list to his Poet's wail ? 
(It sootiies poor misery, heaik'ning to her tale,) 
And iiear him curse the light ho first survcy'd. 
And doubly curse tiio luckless rliyming trade i 

Thou, Nature, partial Nature, I arraign ; 
Of tliy caprice maternal 1 comi)lain. 
'J'holion and the bull thy care have found. 
One shakos tlio Ibrests, and one spurns the 

ground : 
Tiiou giv'st tlie ass his hide, the snail his shell, 
Th' envenom'd wasp, victorious guards his 

cell.— 
Thy minions, kings, defend, control, devour, 
In all th' omnipotence of rule and power. — 
Foxes and statesmen, subtilo wiles ensure ; 
The cit and polecat stiidi, and arc secure. 
Toads with their poison, doctors with their 

drug, 
The priest and liodgehog in their robes are 

snug. 
F.v'n silly woman has her warlike arts, 
Her tongue and eyes, lior dreaded spear and 

darts. 



But Oil ! tliou bitter step-mother and hard, 
To thy poor, fenceless, naked child — the Bard ! 
A thing nnteachablo in world's skill, 
And half an idiot too, more holjilcss still. 
No heels to boar him from the oji'ning dun; 
No claws to dig, liis hatcsd sight to shun ; 
No horns, but those by luckless Hymen worn. 
And tiiose, alas ! not Amaltiioa's horn ; 
No nerves olfact'ry, Mammon's trusty cur. 
Clad in rich dulness' comfortable fur, 
In naked feeling, and in aching pride, 
JIo bears th' unbroken blaist from ev'ry side : 
Vampyro booksellers drain him to the heart. 
And scorpion critics careless venom dart. 

Critics — appall'dT venture on the name, 
Those cut-tliroat bandits in the paths of fame 
Bloody dissectors, worse than ton Monroes ; 
lie hacks to teach, they mangle to expose. 

His heart by causeless, wanton malice wrung 
By blockheads' daring into madness stung ; 
His well-won bays, than life itself more dear, 
By miscreants torn, who ne'er one sprig must 

wear: 
Foil'd, bleeding, tortur'd, in the unequal strife 
The hapless poet flounders on thro' life. 



66 



BURNS' POEMS. 



Till fled each hope that once his hosom fir'd, 
And fled eacli muse that jrlorious once inspir'd, 
Low sunk in squalid, unprotected ago, 
Dead, even resentment, for iiis injurM page, 
Ho heeds or feels no more the rutldess critic's 



So, by some hedge, the generous steed de- 
ceas'd. 
For lialf-starv'd snarling curs a dainty feast ; 
By toil and famine wore to skin and bone. 
Lies senseless of each tugging bitch's son. 

dulness ! portion of the truly blest 1 
Calm shclter'd haven of eternal rest ! 

Thy sons ne'er madden in the fierce extremes 
Of fortune's polar frost, or torrid beams. 
If mantling high she fills tJie golden cup. 
With sober selfish case they sip it up : 
Conscious the bounteous meed they well de- 
serve. 
They only wonder " some folks" do not starve. 
The grave, sage hern thus easy picks liisi frog. 
And thinks the mallard a sad, worthless dog. 
When disappointment snaps the clue of hope. 
And thro' disastrous niglit they darkling grope. 
With deaf endurance sluggishly they bear, 
/nd just conclude that "fools are fortune's 

care." 
So, heavy, passive to the tempest's shocks, 
Strono- on the sign-post stands the stupid ox. 

Not so the idle louses" mad-cap train, 
Not such the workings of their moon-struck 

brain ; 
In equanimity they never dwell, 
By turns in soaring heav'n, or vaulted hell. 

1 dread thee, fate, relentless and severe. 
With all a poet's, husband's, father's fear ! 
Already one strong hold of hope is lost, 
Glencaini, the truly noble, lies in dust ; 
(Fled, like the sun cclips'd as noon appears, 
And left us darkling in a world of tears :) 

O ! hear my ardent, grateful, selfish pray'r ! 
Fintra^ my other slay, long bless and spare ! 
Thro' a long life his iiopes and wishes crown ; 
And bright in cloudless skies his sun go down! 
May bliss domestic smootii his private path ; 
Give energy to life ; and soothe his latest 

breath. 
With many a filial tear circling the bed of 

death ! 



LAMENT 



JAMES, EARL OF GLEfTCAlRN. 

The wind blew hollow frae the hills. 
By fits the sun's departing beam 

Look'd on the fading yellow woods 

That wav'd o'er Lugar's winding stream; 



Beneatli a craigy steep, a bard, 
Laden with years and mcikle pain. 

In loud lament bewail'd his lord, 
Whom deatli liad all untimely ta'en. 



He Ican'd him to an ancient aik, 

Whose trunk was niould'ring down witit 
years ; 
His locks were bleached white wi' time ! 

His hoary check vvas wet wi' tears ! 
And as he touch'd his trembling harp. 

And as he tun'd his doleful sang. 
The winds, lamenting thro' their caves, 

To echo bore the notes alang. 



" Ye scatter'd birds that faintly sing. 

The reliques of the vernal quire ! 
Ye woods that shed on a' the winds 

The Jionours of the aged year 1 
A few short months, and glad and gay, 

Again ye'll charm the ear and e'e ; 
But notcht in all revolving time 

Can gladness bring again to me. 



" I am a bending aged tree. 

That long has stood tlie wind and rain _ 
But now has come a cruel blast. 

And my last hald of earth is gane : 
Nae leaf o' mine shall greet the spring, 

Nae simmer sun exalt my bloom ; 
But I maun lie before the storm. 

And itliers plant them in my room. 



" I've seen sae mony changofu' years, 

On earth I am a stranger grown ; 
I wander in the ways of men, 

Alike unl^nowing and unknown : 
Unheard, unpitied, unreliev'd, 

I bear alane my lade o' care. 
For silent, low, on beds of dust. 

Lie a' tliat would my sorrows share. 



" And last (the sum of a' my griefs !) 

My noble master lies in clay ; 
The flow'r amang our barons bold, 

His country's pride, iiis country's staj 
In weary being now I pine. 

For a' the life of life is dead, 
And hope has left my aged ken, 

On forward wing for ever lied. 



" Awake thy last sad voice, my harp ! 

The voice of wo and wild despair ; 
Awake, resound thy lutcst lay, _ 

Then sleep in silence evormair ! 
And tho'i, my last, best, only friend, 

Tiiat filtcst an untimely tomb, 
Accept this tribute from the bard 

Thou brought from fortune's mirke^^ rloon^ 



BURNS' POEMS. 



6*7 



" In poverty's low, barren vale, 

Tliick mists, obscure, involved mo round ; 
Though oft I turn'd the wistful eye, 

Nae ray of fame was to be found : 
Thou found'st me, like tiie morning sun 

That melts the fogs in limpid air, 
The friendless bard and rustic song, 

Became alike thy fostering care. 

" O ! why has worth so short a date ? 

While villains ripen gray with time ! 
Must thou, the noble, gcn'rous, great. 

Fall in bold manhood's hardy prime ! 
Why did I'live to see that day f 

A day to me so full of wo ! 
O ! had I met the mortal shaft 

Wliich laid my benefactor low ! 

" The bridegroom may forget the bride 

Was made his wedded wife yestreen ; 
The monarch may forget the crown 

That on his head an hour has been ; 
Tlie mother may forget the child 

That smiles sae sweetly on her knee ; 
But I'll remember thee, Gleucairn, 

And a' that thou hast done for me !" 



LINES 
SENT TO SIR JOHN WHITEFOORD, 

OP WHITEFOORD, BART., 
WITH THE FOREGOING POEM. 

Thou, who thy honour as thy God rever'st. 
Who, save thy mind's reproach., nought earthly 

fear'st. 
To thee this votive offering I impart, 
The tearful tribute of a broken heart. 
The friend thou valued'st, I tlie pnlron lov'd ; 
His worth, his honour, all the world approved. 
We'll mourn till we too go as he lias gone. 
And tread tiie dreary path to that dark world 

unknown. 



TAM O' SIIANTER. 
A TALE. 

Of Brownyis and of Bogilis full istliis Buke. 
Gawin Douglas. 

Whf.n chapman billies leave the street, 
And drouthy neebors, necbors meet, 
As market-days are wearing late. 
An' folk begin to tak the gate ; 



While we sit bousing at the nappy, 
An' gcttin fou and unco happy, 
We think na on the lang Scots miles, 
The mosses, waters, slajjs, and stiles. 
That lie between us and our hanie, 
Wharc sits our sulky sullen dame. 
Gathering her brows like gathering storm, 
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm. 



This truth fand honest Tarn o' Shanler^ 
As he frae Ayr, ae night did canter, 
(Auld Ayr wliom ne'er a town surpasses, 
For honest men and bonny lasses.) 



O Tam ! had'st thou but been sae wise. 
As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice ! 
She tauld thee weel thou was a skcllum, 
A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum ; 
That frae November till October, 
Ae market-day thou was nae sober, 
That ilka molder, wi' the miller, 
Thou sat as lang as thou had siller ; 
Tiiat ev'ry naig was ca'd a shoe on, 
The smith and thee gat roaring fou on, 
That at the L — d's house, ev'n on Sunday, 
Thou drank wi' Kirton Jean till Monday. 
She prophesy 'd, that late or soon, 
Thou would be found deep drown'd in Doon, 
Or catch'd wi' warlocks in the mirk. 
By Alloway^s auld haunted kirk. 



Ah, gentle dames ! it gars me greet. 
To think how mony counsels sweet, 
How mony lengthen'd sage advices. 
The husband frae the wife despises I 



But to our tale : Ae market night, 
Tam had got planted unco right; 
Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely, 
Wi' reaming swats, that drank divinely ; 
And at his elbow, souter Johnny, 
His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony ; 
Tam lo'ed him like a vera britlier ; 
They had been fou for weeks thegither. 
The night drave on wi' sangs an' clatter; 
And ay the ale was growing better : 
The landlady and Tam grew gracious; 
Wi' favours, secret, sweet, and i)rccious : 
The souter tauld liis queerest stories ; 
The landlord's laugh was ready chorus: 
The storm without might rair and rustle, 
Tam did na mind the storm a wliistle. 



Care, mad to see a man sae happy. 
E'en drown'd himself amang the nappy; 
As bees lice haine wi' lades o' treasure, 
The minutes vving'd their way wi' pleasure 
Kings may bo blest, but Turn was glorious 
O'er a' the ills o' life victorious. 



68 



BURNS' POEMS. 



But pleasures are like poppies spread, 
You seize the flowV, its bloom is slied ; 
Or like tlie snow-'alls in the river, 
A moment wliite — then melts for ever ; 
Or like the borcalis race. 
That flit ere you can point their place ; 
Or like the rainbow's lovely form 
Evanishing amid tiie storm. — 
Nae man can tether time or tide ; 
The hour approaclies Tarn maun ride ; 
That hour, o' niglit's black arch tlie key-stane, 
Tliat dreary hour he mounts his beast in ; 
And sic a night he taks the road in, 
As ne'er poor simier was abroad in. 



The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last; 
The ratthng show'rs rose on the blast ; 
Tlie speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd ; 
liOud, deep, and lang, the tliunder bellow'd : 
Tiiat night, a cliild might understand, 
The deil had business on his hand. 



Weel mounted on his gray mare, Meg^ 
A better never lifted leg, 
Tarn skelpit on thro' dub and mire. 
Despising wmd, and rain, and fire ; 
^VhiIes holding fast his guid blue bonnet : 
Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet ; 
Whiles glow'ring round wi' prudent cares, 
Lest bogles catch him unawares; 
Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh, 
Whare ghaists and houlets nightly cry. — 



By this time he was cross the ford, 
Whare in the snaw the chapman smoor'd ; 
And past the birks and meikle stane, 
AVliare drunken Charlie brak's neck-bane ; 
And thro' the wliins, and by the cairn, 
Wliare hunters fand themurder'd bairn; 
And near the thorn, aboon the well, 
Where Muns.o's mither hang'd hersel. — 
Before him Boon pours all his floods ; 
The doubling storm roars thro' the woods ; 
The lightnings flash frgm pole to pole ; 
Near and more near the thunders roll ; 
Wiien, glimmering tliro' tlie groaning trees, 
Kirk-AIJoway seein'd in a bleeze ; 
Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing; 
And loud resounded mirth and dancing. — 



Inspiring bold John Barleyrom ! 
What dangers tliou canst make us scorn ! 
Wi' tippenny, we fear nae evil ; 
Wi' usquabae we'll face tlie devil ! — 
Tiie swats sae ream'd in Tammies noddle. 
Fair play, he car'd na dcils a boddle. 
But Mas^gie stood riglit sair astonish'd. 
Till, by the heel and hand admonish'd. 
She ventur'd forward on the light ; 
And, vow ! Tain saw an unco sight ! 



Warlocks and witches in a dance ; 

Nae cotillon brent new frae France, 

But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels, 

Put life and mettle in their heels. 

A winnock-bunker in the east, 

There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast ; 

A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large, 

To gie them music was his charge : 

He screw'd the pipes and gart them skirl, 

Till roof and rafters a' did dirl. — 

Coffins stood round like open presses, 

That shaw'd the dead in their last dresses; 

And by some devilish cantraip slight. 

Each in its cauld hand held a light,— 

By which heroic Tarn was able " 

To note upon the haly table, 

A murderer's banes in gibbet aims ; 

Twa span-lang, wee, unchristen'd bairns ; 

A thief, new cutted frae a rape, 

Wi' liis last gasp his gab did gape; 

Five tomahawks, wi' bluid red-rusted ; 

Five scimitars, wi' murder crusted ; 

A garter, which a babe had strangled; 

A knife, a father's throat had mangled, 

Whom his ain son o' life bereft, 

The gray hairs yet stack to the heft ; 

Wi' mair o' horrible and awfu', 

Which ev'n to name wad be unlawfu'. 



As Tammie glowr'd, amaz'd, and curious, 
The mirth and fun grew fast and furious : 
The piper loud and louder blew ; 
The dancers quick and quicker flew ; 
They reel'd, tliey set, they cross'd, they cleekit, 
Till ilka carlin swat and reekit. 
And coost her duddies to the wark. 
And linliet at it in her sark ! 



Now Tarn, O Tarn .' had tliey been queans 
A' plump and strapping, in their teens; 
Their sarks, instead o' creesliie llannen, 
Been snaw-white seventeen hunder luien ! 
Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair. 
That ance were plush, o' guid blue hair, 
I wad hae gi'en them aff my liurdies. 
For ae blink o' the bonnie burdies I 



But wither'd beldams, auld and droll, 
Rigwoodie hatrs wad spean a foal, 
Lowping an' flinging on a crummock, 
I wonder didna turn thy stomach 



But Tarn kcnn'd what was what fu' brawiie 
There was ae winsome wench and walie, 
That night inlisted in the core, 
(Lang after kenn'd on Carrirk shore I 
For inony a beast to dead slie shot. 
And perish'd mony a bonnie boat. 
And shook baith meikle corn and bear, 
And kept the country -side in fear,") 



BURNS' POEMS. 



69 



Here cuttie sark, o' Paisley harn, 
That while a lassie she had worn, 
In longitude tho' sorely scanty, 
It was her best, and she was vanntie. — 
Ah ! little kenn'd thy reverend grannie, 
That sark she oof t for her wee Kannie, 
we twa pund Scots ('twas a' her riches,) 
Wad ever grac'd a dance of witches ! 



But here my muse her wing maun cour; 
Sic flights are far beyond her pow'r; 
To sing how JVannic lap and flang, 
(A souple jade she was and Strang) 
And how Tarn stood, like ano bewitch 'd. 
And thought his very e'en enrich 'd ; 
Even Satan glowr'd, and fidg'd fu' fain. 
And hotch'd and blew wi' might and main i 
Till first ao caper, syne anitlicr, 
Tarn tint his reason a' thegithor. 
And roars out, " Wccl done, Cutty-sarkI" 
And in an instant all was dark ; 
And scarcely had he Masgie rallied, 
When out the hellish legion sallied. 



As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke. 
When plundering herds assail their byke ; 
As open pussie's mortal foes. 
When, pop ! she starts before their nose ; 
As eager runs the market-crowd. 
When, " Catch the thief 1" resounds aloud ; 
So Maggie runs, the witches follow, 
Wi' mony an eldritch skreech and hollow. 



Ah, Tam I ah. Turn I thou'll get thy fairin ! 
In hell they'll roast thee like a hcrrin ! 
In vain thy Kale awaits thy comin ! 
Kale soon will be a wofu' woman ! 
Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg, 
And win the key-stane* of the brig; 
There at them thou thy tail may toss, 
A running stream they dare na cross. 
But ere the key-stane she could make, 
The fient a tail she had to shake ! 
For JVannie, far before the rest. 
Hard upon noble Maggie prest. 
And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle ; 
But little wist she Maggie's mettle — 
Ae spring brought off her master hale, 
But left behind her ain gray tail : 
Tne carlin claught her by the rump. 
And left poor Maggie scarce a stump. 



Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read, 
Hk man and motlier's son, tak heed: 



* It l3 a well-known fact that witches, or any evil 
epirits, have no power to follow a poor wight any far- 
ther than tlie middle of the next running stream. — It 
may be proper likewise to mention to the benighted 
traveller, that when he falls in with bogles, whatever 
danger may be in his going forward, there is much 
more hazard iu turning bade. 



Whene'er to drink you are inclin'd 
Or cutty-sarks run in your mind. 
Think, ye may buy the joys o'er dear 
Remember Tam o" SuuUers mare. 



ON SEEING A WOUNDED HARE 
LIMP BY ME, 

WHICH A FELLOW HAD JUST SHOT AT. 

Inhuman man ! curse on thy barbVous art, 
And blasted be thy murder-aiming eye : 
May never pity soothe thee with a sigh, 

Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart 1 

Go live, poor wanderer of the wood and field. 
The bitter little that of life remains : 
No more tho thickening brakes and verdant 
plains. 

To tliee shall home, or food, or pastime yield. 

Seek, mangled wretch, some place of wonted 
rest. 
No more of^ rest, but now thy dying bed ! 
The sheltering rushes whistling o'er thy 
head. 
The cold earth with thy bloody bosom prest. 

Oft as by winding Nith, I, musing, wait 
The sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn, 
I'll miss thee sporting o'er the dewy lawn, 

And curse tho ruffian's aim, and rnoum thy 
hapless fate. 



ADDRESS 
TO THE SHADE OF THOMSON, 

ON CROWNING HIS BUST AT EDNAM, ROXBURGH- 
SHIRE, WITH BAYS. 

While virgin Spring, by Eden's flood, 
Unfolds her tender mantle green. 

Or pranks the sod in frolic mood 
Or tunes Eolian strauis between: 

While Summer with a matron grace 
Retreats to Dryburgh's cooling shade, 

Yet oft, delighted, stops, to trace 
The progress of the spiky blade : 

While Autumn, benefactor kind. 

By Tweed erects his aged head, 
And sees, with self-approving mind. 

Each creature on his bounty fed : 



70 



BURNS' POEMS. 



While maniac Winter rages o'er 
The hills whence classic Yarrow flows, 

Rousing the turbid torrent's roar, 
Or sweeping, wild, a waste of snows ; 

So long, sweet Poet of the year, 

Shall bloom that wreath thou well hast won ; 
While Scotia, with exulting tear, 

Proclauns tliat Thomson was her son. 



EPITAPHS, 



8(C. 



ON A CELEBRATED RULING ELDER. 

Here souter * * * * in death does sleep ; ' 

To h-11, if he's gane thither, 
Satan, gie liim thy gear to keep. 

He'll hand it weel thegither. 



ON A NOISY POLEMIC. 

Below thir stanes lie Jamie's banes : 

O death, it's my opinion, 
Thou ne'er took such a bleth'rin b-tch 

Lito thy dark dominion 1 



ON WEE JOHNIE. 

Ilic jacet wee Johnie. 

Whoe'er thou art, O reader, know, 
That death has murder'd Johnie ! 

An' here his body lies fu' low 
For saul he ne'er had ony 



FOR THE AUTHOR'S FATHER. 

O YE, whose cheek the tear of pity stains. 

Draw near with pious rev'rence and attend ! 
Here lie the loving husband's dear remains, 

The tender father, and the gen'rous friend. 
The pitying heart that felt for human wo ; 

The dauntless heart that fear'd no human 
pride ; 
The friend of man, to vice alone a foe ; 

" For ev'n his failings lean'd to virtue's 
side."* 

* Goldsmith. 



FOR R. A. Esq. 



Know thou, O stranger to the fame 
Of this much lov'd, much houour'd nanxi 
(For none that knew him need be told) 
A warmer heart death ne'er made colj 



FOR G. H. Esq 



The poor man weeps — liere G d 

Whom canting wretches blam'd : 

But with such as he, where'er he be. 
May 1 be sav''d or damri'd J 



A BARD'S EPITAPH. 



Is there a whim-inspired fool, 
Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule, 
Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool. 

Let him draw near; 
And owre this grassy heap shig dool, 

And drap a tear. 

Is there a bard of rustic song. 
Who, noteless, steals the crowds among. 
That weekly this area throng, 

O, pass not by I 
But with a frater-feeling strong. 

Here, heave a sigh. 



Is there a man, whose judgment clear. 
Can others teach the course to steer, 
Yet runs, himself, life's mad career. 

Wild as the wave ; 
Here pause — and, thro' the startmg tear. 
Survey this grave. 



This poor inhabitant below 
Was quick to learn and wise to kno\v^ 
And keenly felt the friendly glow, 

.4«rf sofltrjiame. 
But thoughtless follies laid him low. 

And stain'd his name '. 

R,eader, attend — whether thy soul 
Soars fancy's flights beyond the pole, 
Or darkling grubs this earthly hole. 

In low pursuit ; 
Know, prudent, cautious, self-control^ 
Is wisdoms root. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



71 



ON THE LATE 



CAPT. GROSE'S PEREGRINATIONS 
THROUGH SCOTLAND 

COLLECTING THE ANTIQUITIES OF THAT 
KINGDOM. 

Hear, Land o' Cakes, and brither Scots, 
Frae Maidenkirk to Johnie Groat's ; 
If tliere's a hole in a' your coats, 

I rede you tent it : 
A chield's amang you taking notes, 

And, faith, lie'll prent it. 

If in your bounds ye chance to light 
Upon a fine, fat, fodgel wight, 
O' stature short, but genius bright, 

Tliat's lie, mark weel — 
And vow ! he has an unco slight 

O' cauk and keel. 



By some auld, houlet-haunted biggin,* 
Or kirk deserted by its riggin. 
It's ten to ane ye'll find him snug in 

Some eldritch part, 
Wi' deils, they say, L — d save's ! colleaguin 
At some black art. — 



Ilk ghaist that haunts auld ha' or chamer, 
Ve gipsy-gang that deal in glamor. 
And you deep read in hell's black grammar. 
Warlocks and witches ; 
Ye'll quake at his conjuring hammer, 

Ye midnight b es. 



It's tauld he was a sodger bred. 
And ane wad rather fa'n than fled ; 
But now he's quat the spurlle blade, 

And dog-skin wallet, 
And ta'en the — Anticniarian trade, 

I tliink they call it. 

He has a fouth o' auld nick-nackcts : 
Rusty aim caps and jinglin jackets,t 
Wad hand the Lothians three in tackets, 

A towmont guid ; 
And parritch-pats, and auld saut-backets, 

Before the Flood. 



Of Eve's first fire he has a cinder ; 
Auld Tubal Cain's fire-shool and fender ; 
That wliich distinguished the gender 

O' Balaam's ass ; 
A broom-stick o' the witch of Endor, 

Weel shod wi' brass. 

* Vide his Antiquities of Scotland. 

t Vide hia Treatise on Ancient Armour and 
Weapons. 



Forbyc, he'll snape you aff, fu' gleg, 
The cut of Adam's pliilibeg ; 
The knife that nickct Abel's craig 

He'll prove you fully, 
It was a faulding jocteleg. 

Or lang-kail gullie.— 

But wad ye see him in his glee. 
For meikle glee and fun lias he. 
Then set him down, and twa or three 

Guid fellows wi' him ; 
And por/, O port ! sliuie thou a wee. 

And then ye'll see liim ! 

Now, by the pow'rs o' verse and prose .' 
Thou art a dainty cliield, O Grose ! — 
Wliae'er o' thee shall ill suppose. 

They sair misca' thee ; 
I'd take the rascal by the nose, 

Wad say, Shamefa' thee. 



TO MISS CRUIKSHANKS, 

A VERY YOUNG LADY. 

WRITTEN ON THE BLANK LEAF OF A BOOK, PRE- 
SENTED TO HER BY THE AUTHOR. 

Beauteous rose-bud, young and gay, 
Blooming on thy early May, 
Never may'st thou, lovely tlow'r, 
Chilly shrink in sleety show'r ! 
Never Boreas' hoary path, 
Never Eurus' pois'nous breath. 
Never baleful stellar lights. 
Taint thee with untimely blights ! 
Never, never reptile thief 
Riot on thy virgin leaf! 
Nor even Sol too fiercely view 
Thy bosom, blushing still with dew ! 

May'st thou long, sweet crimson gem. 
Richly deck thy native stem ; 
Till some ev'ning, sober, calm. 
Dropping dews, and breathing balm. 
While all around the woodland rings, 
And ev'ry bird thy requiem sings ; 
Thou, amid the dirgeful sound. 
Shed thy dying honours round. 
And resign to parent earth 
The loveliest form she e'er gave birtli. 



SONG. 



Anna, thy charms my bosom fire, 
And waste my soul with care ; 



72 



BURNS' POEMS. 



But ah '. how bootless lo admire, 
Wlien fated to despair ! 

Yet in thy presence, lovely Fair, 
To ho|)e may be forgiv'n ; 

For sure Hwcro impious to despair. 
So much in siiiht of Heav'n. 



ON READING, IN A NEWSPAPER, 

THE DEATH OF JOHN M'LEOD, Esa. 

BROTHER TO A YOUNG LADY, A PARTICULAR 
FRIEND OF THE AUTHOll's. 

Sad thy talc, thou idle page, 

And rueful thy alarms : 
Death tears the brother of her love 

From Isabella's arms. 

Sweetly deckt with pearly dew 

The morning rose may blow ; 
But coUl successive noontide blasts 

May lay its beauties low. 

Fair on Isabella's morn 

The sun propitious smil'd ; 
But, long ore noon, succeeding clouds 

Succeeding hopes bcguil'd. 

Fate ofl tears the bosom chords 

That nature finest strung : 
So Isabella's heart was form'd, 

And so that heart was wrung. 

Dread Omnipotence, alone. 

Can ileal IJie wound he gave ; 
Can point the brimful grief-worn eyes 

To scenes beyond the grave. 

Virtue's blossoms there shall blow 

And fear no withering blast ; 
There Isabella's spotless worth 

Shall happy bo at last. 



THE 

HUMBLE PETITION 

OF 

BRUAR WATER* 

TO 
TIIK NOBLE DUKE OF ATHOLE. 

My Lord, I know, your noble ear 
Wo ne'er assails in vain ; 

•Bruar Palls In Atliole are exceedingly picturesque 
and beautiful ; but their effect is much impaired by the 
want of trees and shrubs. 



Embolden'd thus, I beg you'll hear 
Your limnbie Slave complain. 

How saucy Pha;bus' scorching beams, 
In flaming summer-pride, 

Dry-witiiering, waste my foamy streams. 
And drmk my crystal tide. 



The lightly-jumping glowrin trouts. 

That tliro' my waters play. 
If, in their random, wanton spouts, 

They near tlie margin stray ; 
If, hapless cliance ! they linger lang, 

I'm scorching up to shallow, 
They're left the whitening stanes among 

In gasping death to wallow. 



Last day I grat wi' spite and teen, 

As Poet B**** caine by, 
That to a Hard f should be seen 

Wi' half my channel dry : 
A ])anegyric rhyme, I ween, 

Even as I was he shor'd mo ; 
But had I in my glory been, 

He, kneeling, wad ador'd me. 



Here, foaming down the sholvy rocks, 

In twisting strength I rin ; 
There, iiigli my boiling torrent smokes, 

AViUl-roaring o'er a linn : 
Enjoying large each spring and well 

As nature gave thcni me, 
I am, altlio' I say'tinysel, 

Worth gaun a mile to see. 



Would then my noble master please 

To grant my highest wishes. 
He'll shade my banks wi' tow'ring trees 

And bonnie spreading bushes ; 
Delighted doubly then, my Lord, 

You'll wander on my hanks. 
And list(!n mony a grateful bird 

Return you tuneful thanks. 



Tiic sober laverock, warbling wild. 

Shall to the skies aspire ; 
The gowdspink, music's gayest child, 

Shall swcrlly join the ciioir: 
The blackbird slTong, the lintwhitc clea« 

The mavis mild and mellow ; 
Tiie robhi pensive aut\nnn cheer. 

In all her locks of yellow : 



This too, a covert shall ensure,. 

To shield them from the storm ; 
And coward maukin sleep secure. 

Low in her grassy form : 
Here shall the shcplicrd make his seat 

To weave his crown of ilow'rs ; 
Or find a sheltering safe retreat, 

From prone descending show'rs. 



BURNS POEMS. 



73 



And here, by sweet endearing stealth, 

Sliall iiu'(!t tlio lovin<r pair, 
Dcspl.sinfj worlds witli all Ihcir wealth 

As empty, idle caro : 
Tlie llowVs shall vie in all their charms 

The hour of heav'n to grace, 
And hirks extend tlieir frajrrant arms, 

To screen the dear embrace. 



Here, haply too, t "Tfnial dawn, 

Some musing baro '■'■' y stray, 
And eye the smoking, i wy lawH, 

And misty mountain, , -ay ; 
Or, i)y the reaper's nightl_> beam, 

Mild-ciiequcring thro' the trees, 
Rave to my darkly dashing stream, 

Hoarse-swelling on the breezesi 

Let lofty firs, and ashes cool. 

My lowly banks o'erspread. 
And view, doep-pending in the pool. 

Their shadows' wat'ry bed ! 
Let fragrant birks in woodbines drest 

My craggy cliffs adorn ; 
And, for tlie little songster's nest. 

The close cmbow'rinir thorn. 



So may, old Scotia's darling hope, 

Your little angel band, 
Spring, like their fathers, up to prop 

Tlicir honour'd native land ! 
So may thro' Albion's farthest ken. 

The social llovving glasses, 
To grace be — " Atliole's honest men. 

And Atholc's bounie lasses !" 



ON SCARING SOME WATER FOWL 
IN LOCH-TURIT. 

A WILD SCENE AMONG THE HILLS OP 
OUGHTERTYRE. 

Why, ye tenants of the lake, 
For me your wat'ry haunt forsake ? 
Tell me, fellow-creatures, why 
At my presence thus you fly ? 
Why disturb your social joys, 
Parent, filial, kindred ties ? — • 
Common friend to you and me. 
Nature's gifts to all are free : 
I'eaceful keejiyour dimpling wave, 
Busy feed, or wanton lave ; 
Or beneath tlie sholtcriiig rock, 
Bide the surging billow's shock. 



Conscious, blushing for our race. 
Soon, too soon, your fears i trace. 
' F2 



Man, your proud usurping foo. 
Would be lord of all below: 
Plumes himself in Freedom's pride, 
Tyrant stern to all beside. 

The cagki, from the cliffy brow, 
Marking you his prey below, 
In his breast no pity dwells. 
Strong necessity compels. 
But, man, to whom alone is giv'n 
A ray direct from pitying Heav'n, 
Glories in his heart humane — 
And creatures for his pleasure slain. 

In these savage, liquid plains. 
Only known to wand'ring swains. 
Where the mossy riv'let strays. 
Far from human haunts and ways ; 
All on Nature you depend. 
And life's poor season peaceful spend. 

Or, if man's superior might. 
Dare invade your native right, 
On the lofty ether borne, 
Man with all his pow'rs 3'ou scorn ; 
Swiftly seek, on clanging wings, 
Other lakes and other springs ; 
And the foe you cannot brave. 
Scorn at least to be his slave. 



WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL 

OVER THE CHIMNEY-PIECE, 

IN THE PARLOUR OF THE INN AT KENMORfi, 
TAYMOUTH, 

Admiring Nature in her wildest grace. 
These northern scenes with weary feet I trace ; 
O'er many a winding dale and painful steep, 
Th' abodes of covey'd grouse and timid sheep, 
My savage journey, curious, I pursue, 
Till fam'd lireadalbane opens to my view. 
The meeting cliffs each deep-sunk glen divides, 
The woods, wild scatter'd, clotlio their ample 

sides ; 
Th' outstretching lake, embosom'd 'mong the 

hills. 
The eye with wonder and amazement fills ; 
The Tay meand'ring sweet in infant pride, 
The ])alacc rising on his verdant side ; 
The lawns wood-fring'd in Nature's native 

taste ; 
The hillocks dropt in Nature's careless haste , 
The arches striding o'er the new-born stream ; 
The village, glittering in the moontide beam— . 



Poetic ardours in my bosom swell. 

Lone wand'ring by the hermit's mossy cell; 



74 



BURNS' POEMS. 



The sweepiiiff theatre of hanging woods ; 
Th' incessant roar of headlong tumbling 
floods — 



Here poesy might wake her heav'n-taught 

lyre, 
And look through nature with creative fire ; 
Here, to the wrongs of fate half reconcil'd. 
Misfortune's lighten'd steps might wander 

wild; 
And Disappointment, in these lonely bounds. 
Find balm to soothe her bitter rankling wounds; 
Here heart-struck Grief might heav'n-ward 

stretch her scan, 
And injur'd Worth forget and pardon man. 



WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL, 

STANDING BY THE FALL OF FYERS, NEAR 
LOCH-NESS. 

Among the heathy hills and ragged woods 
The roaring Fyers pours his mossy floods ; 
Till full he dashes on tlie rocky mounds, 
Where, through a shapeless breach, his stream 

resounds. 
As high in air the bursting torrents flow, 
As deep recoiling surges foam below. 
Prone down the rock the whitening sheet de- 
scends, 
And viewless echo's ear, astonish'd, rends, 
Dim-seen, through rising mists and ceaseless 

show'rs. 
The hoary cavern, wide-surroimding low'rs. 
Still thro' the ^ap the struggling river toUs, 
And still below the horrid caldron boOs — 



ON THE BIRTH 

OF A 

POSTHUMOUS CHILD, 

BORN IN PECULIAR CIRCUMSTANCES OF 
FAMILY DISTRESS. 

Sweet Flow'ret, pledge o' meikle love, 

And ward o' mony a pray'r, 
What heart o' stane wad thou na move, 

Sae helpless, sweet, and fair ! 

November hirples o'er tlie lea. 

Chill, on thy lovely form ; 
And gane, alas I the slieltVing tree, 

Should shield tlieo frae the storm. 



May He who gives the rain to pour, 
And wings the blast to blaw. 

Protect thee frae the driving show'r, 
The bitter frost and snaw ! 

May He, the friend of wo and want. 
Who heals life's various stounds, 

Protect and guard the mother plant, 
And heal her cruel wounds 1 

But late she flourish'd, rooted fast, 
Fair on the summer morn : 

Now feebly bends she in the blast, 
Unshelter'd and forlorn. 

Blest be thy bloom, thou lovely gem, 
Unscath'd by ruffian hand ! 

And from thee many a parent stem 
Arise to deck our land I 



THE WHISTLE, 

A BALLAD. 



As the authentic prose history of the Whistle is curi- 
ous, I sliall here give it. — In the train of Anne of Den- 
mark, when she tame to Scotland, with our James the 
Sinth, there came over also a Danish gentleman of gi- 
gantic stature and great prowess, and a matchless cham- 
pion of Bacchus. He had a little ebony Whistle, which 
at the commencement of the orgies he laid on the ta- 
ble, and whoever was last able to blow it, every body 
else being disabled by the potency of the t^ittie, was to 
carry oft" the Whistle as a trophy of victory. The Dane 
produced credentials of his victories, without a single 
defeat, at the courts of Copenhagen, Stockholm, Mos- 
cow, Warsaw, and several of the petty courts in Ger- 
many ; and challenged the Scots Bacchanalians to the 
alternative of trying his jirowess, or else of acknowledg- 
ing their inferiority. — After many overthrows on the 
part of the Scots, the Dane was encountered by Sir Ro- 
bert Lawrie of Maxwelton, ancestor of the present wor- 
thy baronet of tliat name ; who, after three days' and 
three nights' hard contest, left the Scandinavian under 
tlie table, 

And blew on the Whistle his requium shrill. 

Sir Walter, son to Sir Robert before mentioned, after- 
wards lost the Whistle to Walter Riddel of Glenrid- 
del, who had married a sister of Sir Walter's. — On 
Friday the I6th of October, 1790, at Friars-Carse, tha 
Whistle was once more contended for, as related in the 
ballad, by the present Sir Robert Lawrie of Maxwel- 
ton ; Robert Riddel, Esq. of Glenriddel, lineal descend- 
ant and representative of Walter Riddel, who won the 
Whistle, and in whose family it had continue I ; and 
Alexander Fergusson, Esq. of Crajgdarroch, likewise 
descended of the great Sir Robert ; which last gentle 
man carried off the hard- won honours of the field. 



I SING of a Wliistle, a Whistle of worth, 
I suig of a Whistle, the pride of tlie North, 



BURNS' POEMS. 



75 



Was brought to the court of our good Scottish 

king. 
And lojig with this Wliistle all Scotland shall 

sixif. 

Old Lcwia,* still rueing the arm of Fingal, 
Tho god of the bottle sends down from his hall — 
"Tins Whistle's your challenge to Scotland 

get o'er, 
And drink them to hell, Sir I or ne'er see me 

more 1" 

Old poets have sung, and old chronicles tell. 
What championsvciitur'd, what champions fell; 
The son of great Loda was conqueror still. 
And blew on the whistle his requium shrill. 

Till Robert, the lord of the Cairn and the 
Scaur, 
Unmalch'd at the bottle, unconquer'd in war, 
He drank his ])oor god-ship as deep as the sea, 
No tide of the Baltic e'er drunker than he. 

Thus Robert, victorious, the trophy has 

gaiu'd ; 
Which now in his house has for ages remain'd ; 
Till three noble chieftains and all of his 

blood, 
The jovial contest again liavc rcnew'd. 

Three joyous good fellows with hearts clear 

of flaw ; 
Craigdarroch, so famous for wit, worth and 

law ; 
And trusty Glenriddcl, so skill'd in old coins ; 
And gallant Sir Robert, deep read in old wines. 

Craifi'darroch began, with a tono-ue smooth 

as oil. 
Desiring Glenriddol to yield up the spoil ; 
Or else he would muster the lieads of the clan, 
And once more, in claret, try which was the 

man, 

" By the gods of the ancients !" Gleiu-iddel 

replies. 
Before I surrender so glorious a prize, 
I'll conjure the ghost of tlie great Rorie More,t 
And bumper his horn with liim twenty times 

o'er." 

Sir Robert, a soldier, no speech would pre- 
tend. 

But he ne'er turn'd his back on his foe — or his 
friend. 

Said, toss down the Whistle, the prize of the 
field. 

And knee-deep in claret, he'd die or he'd yield. 



•See Ossian's Carrie tlmra 
t See Johnson's Tour to tlic Hebrides. 



To the board of Glenriddel our heroes repair, 
So noted for drowning of sorrow and care ; 
But for wine and for welcome not more known 

to fame, 
Than the sense, wit, and taste, of a sweet, 
lovely dame. 

A bard was selected to witness the fray, 
And tell future ages the feats of the day ; 
A bard who detested all sadness and spleen, 
And wish'd that Parnassus a vineyard had 
been. 

The dinner being over, the claret they ply. 
And every new cork is a new spring of joy ; 
In the bands of old friendship and kindred so 

set, 
And the bands grew the tighter the more they 
were wet. 

Gay pleasure ran riot as bumpers ran o'er ; 
Bright Phoebus ne'er witness'd so joyous a core, 
And vow'd that to leave them he was quitft 

forlorn. 
Till Cynthia hinted he'd see them next morn. 

S'x bottles a-piece had well wore out the 

night, 
Wlien gallant Sir Robert to finish the fight, 
Turn'd o'er in one bumper a bottle of red. 
And swore 'twas the way that their ancestors 

did. 

Then worthy Glenriddel, so cautious and 

sage, 
No longer tlie warfare, ungodly, would wage 
A high ruling Elder to wallow in wine ! 
He left the foul business to folks less divine- 

The gallant Sir Robert fought hard to the 
end ; 

But who can with fate and quart bumpers con- 
tend? 

Though fate said — a hero should perish in 
light ; 

So uprose bright Phoebus — and down fell the 
knight. 

Next uprose our bard, like a prophet in 
drink : — 
" Craigdarroch, thou'lt soar when creation 

shall sink ! 
But if thou would flourish immortal in rh3rme, 
Come — one bottle more — and have at the sub- 
lime ! 

" Thy line, that have struggled for Freedom 

with Bruce, 
Shall heroes and patriots ever produce : 
So thine be the laurel, and mine be the bay ; 
The field thou hast won, by yon bright god of 

day 1" 



MISCEI.LANEOUS PIECES OF POETltY, 

EXTRACTED 

FROM THE CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS ; 

COMPOSED FOR THE MUSICAL PUBLICATIONS OF MESSRS. THOMSON AND JOHNSON; 

WITH ADDITIONAL PIECES. 



SECOND EPISTLE TO DAVIE, 
A BROTHER POET* 



AULD N'EEBOR 

Tm three times doubly o'er your debtor, 
For your auld-farrant, frien'ly letter ; 
Tho' I maun say't, I doubt ye flatter, 

Ye speak sae fair ; 
For my puir, silly, rhymin' clatter, 

Some less maun sair. 

Halo be your heart, hale be your fiddle ; 
Lang may your elbuck jink an' diddle. 
To cheer you thro' the weary widdle 

O' war'ly cares, 
Till bairns' bairns kindly cuddle 

Your auld, gray hairs. 

But, Davie, lad, I'm red ye're glaikit ; 
I'm tauld the Muse yo hac negleckit ; 
An' gif it's sae, ye sud be licket 

Until ye fyke ; 
Sic hauns as you sud ne'er be faikit, 

Be hain't wlia like. 



For me, I'm on Parnassus' brink, 

Rivin tho words to gar them clink; 

Whyles dais't wi' love, whyles dais't wi' drink, 

Wi' jads or masons ; 
An' whyles, but ay owre late, 1 think 

Braw sober lessons. 

• This is prefixed to the poems of David Sillar, pub- 
lUhed at Kilmaiuuck, 1789. 



Of a' the thoughtless sons o' man, 
Commen' me to the Bardie clan ; 
Except it be some idle plan 

O' riiymin' clink, 
The devil-haet, that I sud ban. 

They ever think. 

Nae thought, nae view, nae scheme o' livim' 
Nae cares to gie us joy or grievin' : 
But just tho pouchie put the nieve in. 

An' while ouglit's5 there^ 
Then, hiltie, skiltie, we gae scrievin'. 

An' fash nat inair. 

Leeze me on rhyme ! it's aye a treasure, 
My chief, amaist my only pleasure, 
At hame, a-fiel', at wark or leisure. 

The Muse, poor hizzie! 
Tho' rough an' raploch be her measure. 

She's seldom lazy. 

Hand to the Muse, my dainty Davie ; 
The warl' may play you monie a shavie; 
But for the Muse, she'll never leave ye, 

Tlio' e'er sae puir, 
Na, even tho' linipin wi' the spavie 

Frae door to door 



THE LASS O' BALLOCHMYLE. 

'Twas even — the dewy fields were green. 
On ev'ry blade the pearls hang ; 

The Zephyr wantoned round the bean, 
And boro its fra,o;rant sweets alang : 



BURNS' POEMS. 



77 



Ih every glen the mavis sang, 

All nature listeniiiy soenied the while, 
Except where grecu-wood eclioes rang, 

Ainang the braes o' Caliochniyle. 



With careless step 1 onward strayed, 

My heart rejoiced in nature's joy, 
When musing in a lonely glade, 

A maiden fair 1 chanced to si)y ; 
Her look was like the morning's eye, 

Her air like nature's vernal smile, 
Perfection whispered passing by, 

Behold the lass o' Ballochmyle ! 



Fair is the morn in flowery May, 

And sweet is night in Autumn mild ; 
When roving thro' the garden gay, 

Or wandering in the lonely wild : 
But woman, nature's darling child 1 

There all her charms she does compile ; 
Even there her other works are foil'd 

By the bonny lass o' Ballochmyle. 



O, had she been a country maid, 

And I the happy country swain, 
Tho' sheltered in the lowest shed 

That ever rose in Scotland's plain ! 
Thro' weary winter's wind and rain 

With joy, with rapture, I would toil ; 
And niiihtly to my bosom strain 

The bonny lass o' Ballochmyle. 



Then pride might chmb the slipp'ry steep. 

Where fame and honours lofty shine ; 
And thirst of gold might tempt the deep. 

Or downward seek the Indian mine ; 
■ Give me the cot below the pine, 

To tend the flocks or till the soil. 
And every day have joys divine, 

\Vith the bomiy lass o' Ballochmyle. 



TO MARY IN HEAVEN. 



Thou lingering star, with less'ning ray, 

That lov'st to greet the early morn, 
Again thou usher'st in the day 

My Mary from my soul was torn, 
O Mary ! dear departed shade ! 

Whore is thy place of blissful rest? 
See'st thou thy lover lowly laid ? 

Hear'sl thou the groans that rend his breast! 
That sacred hour can I forget. 

Can I forget the hallowed grove, 
Where by the winding Ayr we met. 

To live one day of parting love I 



Eternity will not efface, 

Those records dear of transports past ; 
Thy image at our last embrace ; 

Ah ! little thought we 'twas our last! 
Ayr gurgling kissed his pebbled shoro, 

O'erhung with wild woods, thick'ningj 
green ; 
The fragrant birch and hawthorn hoar. 

Twin d amorous round the raptured scene. 
The flowers sprang wanton to be prest, 

The birds sang love on every spray, 
Till too, too soon, the glowing west. 

Proclaimed the speed of winged day. 
Still o'er these scenes my mem'ry wakes, 

And fondly broods with miser care ! 
Time but the impression deeper makes. 

As streams their channels deeper wear 
My Mary dear departed shade ! 

Wliere is thy blissful ])lace of rest ? 
See'st thou thy lover lowly laid ? 

Hear'st thou tho groans that rend his breast? 



LINES ON 



AN INTERVIEW WITH LORD DAER. 



This wot ye all whom it concerns, 
I Rhymer Robin, alias Burns, 

October twenty-third, 
A ne'er to be forgotten day, 
Sae far I sprackled up the brae, 

I dinner'd wi' a Lord. 



I've been at druken writers' feasts. 
Nay, been bitch-fou 'mang godly priestSi 

Wi' rev'rence be it spoken ; 
I've even join'd the honour'd jorum. 
When mighty Squircships of the quorum, 

Their hydra drouth did sloken. 



But wi' a Lord — stand out my shin, 
A Lord — a Peer — an Earl's son, 

Up higher yet my bonnet ; 
An' sic a Lord — lang Scotch ells twa, 
Our Peerage he o'erlooks them a', 

As I look o'er my sonnet. 



But oh for Hogarth's magic pow'r . 
To show Sir Bardy's willyart glowr, 

And how he star'd and stammer'd, 
When goavan, as if led wi' branks, 
An' slumpan' on his ploughman shanks, 

He in the parlour hammer'd. 



78 



BURNS' POEMS. 



I sidling shelter'd in a nook, 
An' at his Lordship steaFt a look 

Like some portentous omen ; 
Except good-sense and social glee, 
An' (what surprised me) modesty, 

I marked nought uncommon. 



I watch'd the symptoms o' the Great, 
The gentle pride, the lordly state, 

The arrogant assuming ; 
The feint a pride, nae pride had he. 
Nor sauce, nor state that I could see, 

Mak than an honest ploughman. 



Then from his Lordship I shall learn, 
Henceforth to meet with unconcern 

One rank as welFs another ; 
Nao honest worthy man need care. 
To meet with noble, youthful Dacr, 

For he but meets a brother. 



ON A YOUNG LADY, 



Residing on the banks of the small river Devon, in 
Clarkmannanshire, but whoes infant years were 
spent in Ayrshire 



How pleasant the banks of the clear-winding 
Devon, 
With green-spreading bushes, and flowers 
blooming fair ; 
But the bonniest flower on the banks of the 
Devon, 
Was once a sweet bud on the braes of the 
Ayr. 

Mild be the sun on this sweet blushing flower. 
In the gay rosy mom as it bathes in the dew \ 

And gentle the fall of the soft vernal shower. 
That steals on the evening each leaf to re- 
new. 

O, spare the dear blossom, ye orient breezes. 

With chill hoary wing as ye usher the dawn ! 
And far be thou distant, thou reptile that 
seizes 
The verdure and pride of the garden and 
lawnl 

Let Bourbon exult in his gay gilded lilies. 
And England triumphant display her proud 
rose; 
A fairer than either adorns the green valleys 
Where Devon, sweet Devon, meandering 
flows. 



CASTLE GORDON. 



Streams that glide in orient plains, 
Never bound by winter's chains ; 
Glowing here on golden sands. 
There commix'd with foulest stains 
From tyranny's empurpled bands : 
These, their richly-gleaming waves, 
I leave to tyrants and their slave? 5 
Give me the stream that sweetly laves 
The banks, by Castle Gordon. 



n. 



Spicy forests, ever gay, 
Shading from the burning ray 
Hapless wretches sold to toil, 
Or the ruthless native's way, 
Bent on slaughter, blood, and spoil* 
Woods that ever verdant wave, 
I leave the tyrant and the slave. 
Give me the groves that lofty brave 
The storms, by Castle Gordon. 

in. 

Wildly here without control, 
Nature reigns and rules the whole ; 
In that sober pensive mood. 
Dearest to the feeling soul. 
She plants the forest, pours the flood; 
Life's poor day I'll musing rave. 
And find at night a sheltering cave. 
Where waters flow and wild woods wave.. 
By bonnie Castle Gordon.* 



NAE-BODY. 



I HAE a wife o' my ain, 
I'll partake wi' nae-body; 

I'll tak cuckold frae nane, 
I'll gie cuckold to nae-body, 

I hae a penny to spend. 

There — thanks to nae-body; 
I hae naething to lend, 

I'll borrow frae nae-body. 

I am nae-body's lord, 
I'll be slave to nae-body; 

I hae a guid braid sword, 
I'll tak dunts frae nae-body. 



♦ Tliese verses ovir Poet composed to ho siinj to M> 
ra^, a Highland air, of which he was extremely fond. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



7» 



I'll be merry and free, 
I'll be sad for nac-body ; 

If nae-body care for me, 
I'll care for nae-body. 



ON THE DEATH OF A LAP-DOG, 
NAMED ECHO. 



ts wood and wild, ye warbling throng, 

Your heavy loss deplore ; 
Now half-extinct your powers of song. 

Sweet Echo is no more. 

Fe jarring screeching things around. 
Scream your discordant joys ; 

Now half your din of tuneless sound 
With Echo silent lies. 



SONG.* 



Tune — " I am a man unmarried." 

O, ONCE I lov'd a bonnie lass, 

Ay, and I love her still. 
And whilst that virtue warms my breast 

ril love my handsome Nell. 

Tal lal de ral, &c. 

A" bonnie lasses I hae seen. 

And mony full as braw. 
But for a modest gracefu' mien 

The lilie I never saw. 

A bonnie lass, I will confess, 

Is pleasant to the e"e. 
But without some better qualities 

She's no a lass for me. 

But Nelly's looks are blithe and sweet. 

And what is best of a', 
Her reputation is complete, 

And fair without a flaw. 

She dresses ay sae clean and neat, 

Both decent and genteel ; 
And then there's something in her gait 

Gars ony dress look weel. 

A ffandv dress and gentle air 
May "sliglitly touch the iieart, 

But it's innocence and modesty 
That polishes the dart. 

• This was our Poet's first attoin|it. 



'Tis this in Nelly pleases me, 
'Tis this enchants my soul ; 

For absolutely in my bieast 
She reigns without control. 

Tal lal de ral, &c. 



INSCRIPTION 
TO THE MEMORY OF FERGUSSON. 

HERE LIES ROBERT FERGUSSON, POET. 
Bom September 5tk, 1751 — Died, IGth October, 1774. 

No sculptur'd marble here, nor pompous lay 
" No storied urn nor animated bust," 

This simple stone directs pale Scotia's way 
To pour her sorrows o'er her poet's dust. 



THE CHEVALIER'S LAMENT. 

The small birds rejoice in the green leaves re- 
turning, 
The murmuring streamlet winds clear thro' 
the vale ; 
The hawthorn trees blow in the dews of the 
morning, 
And wild scatter'd cowslips bedeck the greeu 
dale: 

But what can give pleasure, or what can seem 

fair. 
While the lingering moments are number'd by 

care ? [singing. 

No flowers gaily springing, nor birds sweetly 
Can soothe the sad bosom of joyless despair. 

The deed that I dar'd could it merit their malice, 

A king and a father to place on his throne ? 

His right are these hills, and his right are 

these valley's. 

Where the wild beasts find shelter, but I can 

find none. 

But 'tis not my sufferings thus WTetched, for 

lorn. 
My brave gallant friends, 'tis your rum I 
mourn : [trial. 

Your deeds prov'd so loyal in hot bloody 
Alas ! can I make you no sweeter return ! 



EPISTLE TO R. GRAHAM, Esq. 

When Nature her great master-piece designed. 
And fram'd her last best work the human 
mind. 



80 



BURNS' POEMS. 



Har e3'C intent on all the mazy plan, 

She lorm'd of various parts the various man. 



Then first she calls the useful many forth ; 
Plain plodding industry and soher worth : 
Thence peasants, farmers, native sons of earth. 
And mercliandiso' whole genus take tlicir 

birth : 
Each prudent cit a warm existence finds, 
And all mechanics' many apron'd kinds. 
Some other rarer sorts are wanted yet, 
The lead and buoy are needful to the net ; 
The caput mortuum of gross desires _ 
Makes a material for mere knights and 

squires ; 
Tiio martial phosphorus is taught to flow, 
Slio kneads the lumpish philosophic dough. 
Then marks tlf unyielding mass with grave 

designs, 
liaw, physics, politics, and deep divines : 
Last, she sublimes th' Aurora of the poles, 
Tlie flashing elements of female souls. 



The ordered system fair before her stood, 
Nature, woll-pleas'd, pronounced it very good ; 
But e'er she gave creating labour o'er, 
Half jest, she try'd one curious labour more. 
Some spmny, fiery, ignis fatmis matter ; 
Such as the slightest breath of air might scat- 
ter ; 
With arch-alaerity and conscious glee 
(Nature may have her whim as well as we. 
Her Hogarth-art perhaps she meant to show it) 
She forms the thuig, and christens it — a poet. 
Creature, tho' oft the prey of care and sorrow, 
VVlicn blest to-day unmindful of to-morrow. 
A being forin'd t' amuse his graver friends, 
Admir'd and prais'd — and tliere the homage 

ends : 
A mortal quite unfit for Fortune's strife. 
Yet oft the sport of all tiie ills of life ; 
Prone to enjoy each pleasure riches give, 
Yet haply wanting wherewithal to live : 
Longing to wipe each tear, to heal each groan, 
Yet frequent all unheeded in his own. 



IJut honest nature is not quite a Turk, 
She laugh'd at first, then felt for her poor 

work. 
Pitying the propless climber of mankind. 
She cast about a standard tree to find ; 
And, to support his holi)lcas woodbine state, 
Attadi'd him to tlie generous truly great, 
A title, and the only one 1 claim, 
To lay strong liold for help on bounteous 
Graham. 



Pity the tunnfid muses' hapless train. 
Weak, timid landmen on life's stormy main! 
Tiieir luiarts no selfish stern absorbent stufi". 
That never gives — tiif)' humbly takes enougli ; 



The little fate allows, they share as soon, 
Uidike sage, proverb'd \Visdom's ho.rd-wrung 

boon. 
Tlie world were blest did bless on them de- 
pend, 
Ah, that " tlie friendly e'er should want a 

friend !" 
Let prudence number o'er each sturdy son, 
Who life and wisdom at one race begun. 
Who feel by reason, and who give by rulo, 
(Instinct 's a brute, and sentiment a fool !) 
Who make poor xvill do wait u])on / should— 
Wo own they're prudent, but who feels they're 

good ? 
Ye wise ones, hence ! ye hurt the social eye I 
God's image rudely etch'd on base alloy I 
But come ye who tlie godlike pleasure know, 
Heaven's attribute distinguish'd — to bestow! 
^Vhose arms of love would grasp tlie human 

race : 
Come thou who giv'st with all a courtier's 

grace ; 
Friend of my life, true patron of my rhymes ! 
Prop of my dearest hopes for future times. 
Why shrinks my soul half blushing, half 

afraid. 
Backward, abash'd to ask thy friendly aid? 
I know my need, I know thy giving hand, 
I crave thy friendship at thy kind command ; 
But there are such who court the tmieful 

nine — 
Heavens ! should the branded character ba 

mine ! 
Whose verse in manhood's pride sublimely 

flows. 
Yet vilest reptiles in their begging prose. 
Mark, how their lofty independent spirit 
Soars on tho spurning wing of injured merit ! 
Sock not tlie proofs in private life to find ; 
Pity the best of words should bo but wind ! 
So, to heaven's gates the lark's shrill song 

ascends. 
But grovelling on the earth the carol ends. 
In ail tlic clain'rous cry of starving want, 
They dun benevolence with shameless front ; 
Oblige tlicm, patronise their tinsel lays, 
They persecute you all your future days ! 
Ere my poor soul such deep damnation stain, 
My horny fist assumes the plough again ; 
Tlie piebald jacket let nic patcli once more ; 
On eighlcen-])ence a week, Pve liv'd before. 
Though, thanks to Heaven, I dare even that 

last shift, 
I trust meantime my boon is in thy gift : 
That plac'd by thoo upon tho wisJi'd-for height, 
Vv'herc, man and nature fairer in her siglit, 
My muse ma}' imp her wing for some sublim- 
er llisrht.* 



* Tliie is our Poet's first cpisile lO Graham of Fin- 
try. It is not equal to tlie second ; but it coiuains too 
much of the cliaracieristic vigour of its autlior to be sup 
pressed. A little more knowledge of natural liislory. 
or of clicniistry, was wanted to enable liiui to execute 
the oriL'lnal conupplion lovrectly. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



81 



FRAGMENT, 



IlfSCRIUF.D TO THE RIGHT HON. C. J. FOX. 



How wisdom and folly meet, mix, and unite; 

How virtue and vice blend their black and their 
white; 

Jow ffcnius, the illustrious father of fiction, 

Joiifounds rule and law, reconciles contra- 
diction — 

I sing : If theso mortals, the critics, should 
hustle, 

I care noi, not I, let tho critics go whistle. 



But \,cnv for a Patron, whose name and 
whoso plory 
At once may illustrate and honour my story. 



Thou first of our orators, first of our wits; 
Vet whose j)arts and acquirements seem mere 

lucky hits ; 
With knowledge so vast, and with judgment so 

strong, 
No man with the half of 'em e'er went far 

wrong ; 
With passions so potent, and fancies so bright. 
No man with the half of 'cm o'er went quite 

right ; 
A sorrj', poor misbcgot son of the Muses, 
For using thy name offers fifty excuses. 

Good L — d, what is man ! for as simple he 

looks. 
Do but try to develop his hooks and his 

crooks ; 
With his doptlis and his shallows, his good and 

his ovil. 
All in all he's a problem must puzzle the devil. 



On his one ruling passion Sir Pope hugely 

labours. 
That, like th' old Hebrew walking-switch, cats 

up its neighbours: 
Mankind are his show-box — a friend, would 

you know him? 
Pull tho string, ruling passion tho picture will 

show him. 
What pity, in rearing so beauteous a system. 
One trifling particular, truth, should have 

miss''d liim ; 
For, spite of his fine theoretic positions. 
Mankind is a science defies definitions. 



Some sort all our qualities each to its tribe. 
And think human nature they truly describe; 
I lave you found this, or t'other .' there's more 

in the wind, 
As by one drunken fellow his comrades you'll 

find. 



But such is the flaw, or the depth of tho plan, 
In tho make of that wonderful creature, call'd 

Man, 
No two virtues, whatever relation they claim, 
Nor even two diffbrcnt shades of the same. 
Though like as was ever twin brother to bro- 
ther, 
Possessing the one shall imply you've the 
other. 



TO DR. BLACKLOCK. 



ElIiBland, 21st Oct. 1789. 



Wow, but your letter made me vauntie ! 
And are yo hale, and wccl, and cantie? 
1 kenn'd it still your wee bit jauntie 

Wad bring ye to : 
Lord send you ay as wecl's I want ye, 

And then ye'll do. 



Tho ill-thief blaw the Heron south ! 
And never drink bo near his drouth! 
He tald myself by word o' mouth. 

He'd tak my letter; 
I lippen'd to the chiel in troufji. 

And bade nao better. 



But aiblins honest Master Heron 
Had at the lime some dainty fair one, 
To ware his theologic care on. 

And holy study; 
And tir'd o' sauls to waste his lear on. 

E'en tried the body.* 



But what d'ye think, my trusty fier, 
I'm turn'd a gavigor — Peace be here ! 
Parnassian queens, T fear, I fear 

Ye'll now disdain me, 
And then my fifty pounds a year 

Will httle gain me. 



Yo glaikit, gleesome, daintie damics, 
Wha by Castalia's winqjlin streaniies, 
Lovvp, sing, and lave your pretty limbics, 

Yo ken, ye ken, 
That Strang necessity s\iprcme is 

'Mang sons o' men. 



I hao a wife and twa wee laddies. 

They maun hao brose and brats o' duddics ; 



* Mr. Ilpron, author of the History of Scotland, and 
of various other work«. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



Yo ken yoursols my heart right proud is, 
1 need na vaunt, 

But ril sued besoms — thraw saugli woodics, 
Before tliey want. 

Lord help me tliro' this warld o' care 1 
I'm weary sick o't late and air ! 
Not but 1 hao a richer share 

Than niony ithcrs; 
But why should ae man bolter fare, 

And a' men brithers ? 

Come, Firm Resolve, take thou the van. 
Thou stalk o' carl-hemp in man ! 
And let us mind, faint heart ne'er wan 

A lady fair; 
Wha does the utmost that he can. 

Will whyles do mair. 

But to conclude my silly rhyme, 
(I'm scant o' verse, and scant o' timej) 
To make a happy firo-sido clime 

To weans and wife, 
That's the true pathos and sublime 

Of human life. 

My compliments to sister Beckie ; 
And eke the same to honest Lucky, 
I wat she is a dainty chuckle, 

As o'er tread clay ! 
And gratefully, my guid auld cockio, 

I m yours for av. 



you 



ay. 



Robert Burns. 



PROLOGUE, 

SPOKEN AT THE THEATRE ELLISLAND, ON 
NEW-YEAR-DAY EVENING. 

No song nor dance I bring from yon great 

city 
That queens it o'er our taste — the more 's tlie 

pity : 
Tho', by the by, abroad why will you roam ? 
(rood sense and taste are natives here at home : 
But not for panegyric 1 appear, 
I come to wish you all a good new ycarl 
Old Father Time dc])utos me here before ye, 
Not for to preach, but tell his simple story : 
The sage grave ancient cough'd, and bade me 

say, 
" You're one year older this important day,'' 
\r wiser Ion — he hinted some suggestion, 
But 'twould be rude, you know, to ask the 

qneation ; 
And with a would-be-roguish leer and wink. 
He bade me on you press tliis one word — 

- thinli r"' 



Ye si)rightly youths, quite flush with hope 

and spirit, 
Who think to storm the world by dint of merit, 
To j^on the dotard has a deal to say, 
\n his sly, dry, sententious, proverb way I 
lie bids you mind, amid your tlioughUess 

rattle, 
That the first blow is ever half the battle ; 
That tho' some by the skirt may try to snatch 

him ; 
Yet by the forelock is the hold to catch him; 
That whether doing, sntforing, or forbearing 
You may do miracles by persevering. 

Last, tho' not least in love, ye youthful fair, 
Angelic forms, high I leaven's peculiar care ! 
To you old Bald-pate smooths his wrinkled 

brow. 
And humbly begs you'll mind the important— 

now 1 
To crown j'our happiness he asks your leave, 
And oll'ors, bliss to give and to receive. 

For our sincere, tho' haply weak endeavours, 
With grateful pride we own your many 

favours; 
And howsoe'er our tongues may ill reveal it, 
Believe our glowing bosoms truly feel it. 



ELEGY 



ON 1 HE LATE MISS BURNET 



OF HONBODDO. 

liiFE ne'er exulted in so rich a prize, 
As Burnet, lovely from her native skies; 
Nor envious death so Iriuniph'd in a blow. 
As that which laid the acconiplish'd Burnei 
low. 

Thy form and mind, sweet maid, can I forget? 
In richest ore the briglitest jewel sot! 
In thee, high Heaven above was truest shown 
As by his noble work the Godhead best is 
known. 

In vain 3'e flaunt in summer's pride, ye groves ; 

Thoucrystalstrcamletwith thy flowery shore. 
Ye woodland choir that rhant your idle loves, 

Ye cease to charm — Eliza is no more I 



Ye heathy wastes, immix'd with reedy fens ; 

Ye mossy streams, with sedo-c and rushes 
stor d ; 
Ye rngofed clifTs, o'erhanging dreary glens, 

To yOu I fly, vi witli my soul accord. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



t)3 



Princes, whose cumb'roua priJc was all their 
worth, 

Shall venal lays their pompous exit hail ? 
And thou, sweet excellence! forsake our earth, 

And not a muse in honest grief bewail .' 

We saw thee shine in youth and beauty's pride, 
And virtue's light, that beams beyond the 
spheres ; 

But like the sun eclips'd at morning tide, 
1'hou Icfl'st us darkling in a world of tears. 

The parent's lieart that nestled fond in thee, 
Tliat heart how sunk, a prey to grief and 
care ! 

So dcckt the woodbine sweet yon aged tree, 
So from it ravish 'd, leaves it bleat and bare. 



IMITATION 

OF AN OLD JACOBITE SONG. 

By yon castle wa', at the close of the day, 
[ heard a man sing, tho' his head it was gray ; 
And as ho was singing, tlie tears fast down 

came — 
There '11 never be peace till Jamie comes hame. 

The church is in ruins, the state is in jars, 
Delusions, oppressions, and murderous wars ; 
We dare na weel say 't, but we ken wha's to 

blame — 
There 11 never be peace till Jamie comes hame. 

My seven braw sons for Jamie drew sword. 
And now I greet round their green beds in the 

yerd: 
It brak the sv/eet heart o' my faithfu' auld 

dame — 
There '11 never be peace till Jamie comes hame. 

Now life is a burden that bows me down, 
Sin' I tint my bairns, and he lint his crown ; 
But till my last moment my words are the 

same — 
There '11 never be peace till Jamie comes hame. 



SONG OF DEATH. 

Scene — a field of hattle ; time of Uir day — r.vnin(r ; the 
wounded and dying of the vicforioua army are sup- 
posed to join in the following Hong. 

Farewell, thou fair day, thou green earth, 
and ye skies. 
Now gay witli the liriglit setting sun I 
Farewell, loves and friendships, ye dear ten- 
der lies, 
Our race of existence is run I 



Thou grim king of terrors, thou life's gloomy 
foe. 
Go, frighten the coward and slave ; 
Go, teach them to tremble, fell tyrant I but 
know. 
No terrors hast thou to the brave ! 

Thou strik'st the dull peasant — he sinks in tho 
dark. 

Nor saves e'en the wreck of a name ; 
Thou strik'st the young hero — a glorious mark ! 

He falls in the blaze of hia fame 1 

In the field of proud honour — our swords in 
our hands. 

Our King and our country to save^ 
While victory shines on life's last ebbing sands, 

O who would not rest with the brave 1 



THE RIGHTS OF WOMAN. 

yin Occasional Jlddress spohen by Miss Fontenelle on 
her Benefit Slight. 

WniLtt Europe's eye is fix'd on mighty things, 
The fate of empires and the fall of kings ; 
While quacks of state must each produce his 

plan, 
And even children lisp the Ria;hls of Man; 
Amid this rnighty fuss, just let me mention. 
The Rights of Woman merit some attention. 

First, in the sexes' intermix'd connection, 
One sacred Right of Woman is protectimi. — 
The tender flower that lifts its head, elate, 
Helpless, must fall before the blasts of fate, 
Sunk on the earth, dcfac'd its lovely form, 
Unless your shelter ward th' impending storm.— 

Our second Right — but needless here is 
caution. 
To keep that right inviolate 's the fashion, 
F-acli man of sense has it so full before him, 
I !e'd die before he'd wrong it — 'tis decorum.— 
There was, indeed, in far less polish'd days, 
A time, when rough rude man had naughty 

ways ; 
Would swagger, swear, get drunk, kick up a 

riot ; 
Nay, even thus invade a lady's quiet — 
i\ow, thank our stars ! these Gothic times are 

fl.'d ; 
Now, well-bred men — and you are all well- 
bred — 
Most justly think (and we are much the 

gainers) 
Such conduct neither spirit, wit, nor manners. 

For Right the third, our last, our best, oup 
dearest. 
That right to fluttering female hearts the 
nearest, 



64 



BURNS' POEMS. 



Which even the Rights of Kings in low pros- 
tration 
Most humbly own — 'tis dear, dear adinirntlon! 
In that blest spliorc alone we live and move ; 
There taste tliat life of life — immortal lovj. — 
Smiles, glances, sighs, tears, fits, flirtations, 

airs, 
'Gainst such an host what flinty savage dares — 
When awful ]3eauty joins witii all her charms. 
Who is so rash as rise in rebel arms i 



But truce with kings, and ti'uce with consti- 
tutions. 
With bloody armaments and revolutions ; 
Lot majesty our first attention summon, 
Ah ! ca ira .' the Majesty of Woman ! 



ADDRESS, 



Spoken hy JtTiss FontrnrJlc, on her hcnefit-viffht, Decem- 
ber 4, 1795, at the Theatre, Dumfries. 



SriLL anxious to secure your partial favour. 
And not loss anxious, sure, this night, than 

ever, 
A Prologue, Epilogue, or some such matter, 
'Twould vamp my bill, said 1, if nothing bet- 
ter ; 
So, sought a Poet, roosted near the skies ; 
Told him I came to feast my curious eyes ; 
Said, nothing like his works was ever printed ; 
And last, my Prologue-business slily hinted. 
" Ma'am, let me tell you," quoth my man of 

rhymes, 
" I know your bent — these are no laughing 

times : 
Can you — but Miss, I own I have my fears. 
Dissolve in pause — and sentimental tears — 
With laden sighs, and solemn-rounded sen- 
tence. 
Rouse from his sluggish slumbers, fell Repen- 
tance ; 
Paint Vengeance as ho takes his horrid stand. 
Waving on high the desolating brand. 
Calling the storms to bear liim o'er a guilty 
land ?" 



I could no more — askance the creature eye- 
ing. 

D'ye think, said I, this face was made for 
crying ? 

I'll Inugh, that's poz — ^nay more, the world 
shall know it ; 

And so, your servant 1 gloomy Master Poet ! 



Firm as my creed, Sirs, 'tis my fix'd belief. 
That Mib-ery's another word for Grief: 



I also think — so may T bo a bride ! 

That so much laughter, so nmch life enjoy'd. 

Thou man of cray.y cr\ro and coasoloss sigh. 
Still under bleak INlisloiluiic'.s iiliistiiig eye ; 
Doonj'd to that sorest task of man ;ilive — 
To make three guineas do the work of five : 
Laugh in Misfortune's I'acc — the beldam witch I 
Say, you'll be merry, though you can't be ricL 

Thou other man of care, the wretch in love. 
Who long with jiltish arts and airs hast strove ; 
Who, as the boughs all temptingly project, 
Measur'st in desperate thought — a rope — thy 

neck — 
Or, where the beetling cliff o'orhangs tlio 

deep, 
Peerest to meditate the healing leap ; 
Wouldst thou be cur'd, thou silly, moping elf, 
Langli at Iier follies — laugh e'en at thyself: 
Learn to desjiise those frowns now so terrific, 
And love a kinder — that's your grand specific 

To sum up all, bo merry, I advise ; 
And as we're merry, may we still be wise. 



SONGS, 



THE LEA-RIG. 



When o'er the hill the eastern star, 

Tells bughtin-time is near, my jo ; 
And owsen frae the furrow'd field. 

Return sao dowf and weary, O ; 
Down by the burn, where scented birks, 

Wi' dew are hanging clear, niy jo, 
PU meet thee on the lea-rig. 

My ain kind dearie, O. 

In mirkest glen, at midnight Iiour, 

I'd rove and ne'er be eerie, O, 
If thro' that glen, I gaed to thee, 

My ain kind dearie,, O. 
Altlio' the night were ne'er sac wild, 

And I were ne'er sac wearic, O, 
I'd meet thee on the lea-rig. 

My ain kind dearie, O. 

Tiie hunter lo'es the morning sun, 
To rouse the momilain deer, my jo, 

At noon the fisher seeks the glen. 
Along liie burn to steer, my jo ; 



BURNS' POEMS. 



85 



Gio me tlie hour o' gloamin gray, 
It iiiaks my heart sae cliecry, O, 

To meet thee on the lea-rig, 
My am kind dearie, O. 



BONNIE LESLEY. 



TO MARY. 

Tune — '• Evve-bughts, Marion." 

Will yc go to the Indies, my Mary, 
And leave auld Scotia's sliore? 

Will ye go to the Indies my Mary, 
Across th' Atlantic's roar ? 

eweet grows the lime and the orange. 

And the apple on the pine ; 
But a' the charms o' the Indies, 
Can never equal thine. 

1 hae sworn by the Heavens to my Mary, 

I hae sworn by the Heavens to be true ; 
And sae may the Heavens forget me, 
When I forget my vow ! 

O plight me your faith, my Mary, 
And plight me your lily-white hand; 

O plight me your faith, my Mary, 
Before I leave Scotia's strand. 

We hae plighted our troth, my Mary, 

In mutual affection to join, 
And cuist be the cause that shall part us ! 

The hour, and the moment o' time 1* 



MY ^VIFE'S A WINSOME WEE THING. 

She is a winsome wee thing. 
She is a handsome wee thing, 
She is a bonnie wee thing, 
This sweet wee wife o' mine. 

I never saw a fairer, 

I never lo'ed a dearer. 

And niest my lieart I'll wear her, 

For fear my jewel tine. 

She is a winsome wee thing. 
She is a handsome wee thing, 
She is a bonnie wee thing, 
This sweet wee wife o' mine. 

The warld's wrack we share o't, 
The warstio and the care o't ; 
Wi' her I'll Wilhly bear it. 
And tliink my lot divine. 

•This Song Mr. Thomson lias not adopted in his 
collection- It deserves, however, to be preserved. E. 



O SAW yc bonnie Lesley 

As she gaod o'er the border.' 

She's gane, like Alexander, 

To spread her conquests fartlier* 

To see her is to love her. 
And love but her for ever ; 

For Nature made her what she is, 
And ne'er made sic anither I 

Thou art a queen, fair Lesley, 
Thy subjects we, bt;fore thee; 

Thou art divine, fair Lesley, 
The hearts o' men adore thee. 

The Deil he could na scaith thee. 
Or aught that wad belang thee ; 

He'd look into thy bonnie face. 
And say, " I canna wrang thee." 

The Powers aboon will tent thee ; 

Misfortune sha'na steer thee ; 
Thou'rt like themselves sac lovely 

That ill they'll ne'er let near thee. 

Return again, fair Lesley, 

Return to Caledonie I 
That we may brag, we hae a lass 

There's nane again sae bonnie. 



HIGHLAND MARY 



Tune — " Catharine Ogic." 



Ye banks, and braes, and streams around. 

The castle o' Montgomery, 
Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, 

Your waters never drumlie ! 
There simmer first unfauld her robes. 

And there the langcst tarry ; 
For there I took the last fareweel 

O' my sweet Highland Mary. 

How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk. 

How rich the hawthorn's blossom ; 
As underneath their fragrant shade 

I clasp'd her to my bosom ! 
The golden hours on angel wings. 

Flew o'er me and my dearie ; 
For dear to me, as light and life. 

Was my sweet Highland Mary. 

Wi' mony a vow, and lock'd embrace 

Our parting was fu' tender ; 
And pledging atl to meet again. 

We tore oursels asunder ; 



86 



BURNS' POEMS. 



But Oil ! fell death's nntimcly frost, 
Tliat nij)t my flower sae early ! 

Now green 'b tlie sod, and cauld's the clay, 
That wraps my Highland Marv ' 

O pale, pale now, those rosy lips, 

I aft hao kiss'd sae fondly 1 
An<l closed for ay, the sparkling glance. 

That dwelt on rne sae kindly 1 
And mouldering now in silent dust, 

That heart that lo'ed me dearly 1 
But still within my bosom's core, 

Shall live my Higliland Mary. 



AULD ROB MORRIS. 

There's auld Rob Morris that wons in yon 

glen. 
He's the king o' guid fellows and wale of auld 

men; 
He has gowd in his coffers, he has owsen and 

kine. 
And ae bonnie lassie, his darling and mine. 

She's fresh as the morning, the fairest in May ; 
She's sweet as the ev'oing ainang the new hay ; 
As blithe and as artless as the lambs on the lea. 
And dear to my heart as the light to my e'e. 

But Oil ! she's an heiress, auld Robin's a laird. 
And my daddie has nought but a cot-house 

and yard ; 
A wooer like me maunna hope to come speed, 
Tlie wounds I must liide that will soon be my 
dead. 

The day comes to me, but delight brings me 

nane ; 
The night comes to me, but my rest it is gane : 
I wander my lane like a night-troubled giiaist. 
And I sigii as my heart it would burst in my 

breast. 

O, had she been but of lower degree, 

I then might hae hop'd she wad smil'd upon 

mel 
O, how past descriving had tlien been my 

bliss, 
As now my distraction no words can express ! 



DUNCAN GRAY. 

Duncan Gray came here to woo, 
Ha, ha, the vooing o7, 

On blythe yule night when we were fou, 
Ji«, ha, the ivuoing o7. 



Maggie coost her head fu' high, 
Look'd asklent and unco skeigh, 
Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh; 
Ha, ha, the icooing o7. 



Duncan fleech'd, and Duncan pray'd t 

Ha, ha. Sec. 
Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig, 

Ha, ha. Sec. 
Duncan sigh'd baith out and in, 
Grat his eon baith blecr't and blin' 
Spak o' lowpin owre a linn ; 

Ha, ha. Sec. 



Time and chance are but a tide, 

Ha, ha. Sec. 
Slighted love is sairto bide. 

Ha, ha. Sec. 
Shall I, like a fool, quoth he. 
For a haughty hizzie die ? 
She may gae to — France for me ! 

Ha, ha, Sec. 



How it comes let doctors tell. 

Ha, ha, <Scc. 
Meg grew sick — as he grew heal, 

Ha, ha. See. 
Something in her bosom wrings. 
For relief a sigh she brings; 
And O, her een, they spak sic tilings; 

Ha, ha. Sec. 



Duncan was a lad o' grace. 

Ha, ha. Sec. 
Maggie's was a piteous case. 

Ha, ha. Sec. 
Duncan could na be her death. 
Swelling ]iity smoor'd his wrath ; 
Now they're crouse and canty baitlj. 

Ha, ha, Sec. 



SONG. 

Tune — " I had a horse." 



O rooRTiTu cauld, and restless love, 

Ye wreck my peace between ye; 
Yet poortith a' I could forgive. 

An' 'twere na for my .leanie. 
O why should fate sic pleasure have, 

Life's dearest bands untwining? 
Or why sae sweet a flower as love 

Depend on Fortune's shining? 



BURNS' POEMS. 



87 



This ^varl(^'s wnalth when I think on, 

Its pride, and a' the lave o'l ; 
Fie, fie on silly coward man, 
Thai he siiould be the slave o't. 
wlii/t kc. 

f ler cen sac bonnie blue betray, 
How she repays my passion ; 

But prudence is her o'erword ay. 
She talks of rank and fashion, 
O ivhy, &CC. 

O wha can prudence think upon. 

And sic a lassie by him ? 
O wha can prudence think upon, 

And sae in love as I am ? 
wh]/, &c. 

How blest the humble cotter's fate 1 

He wooes his simple dearie ; 
The sillie bogles, wealth and state. 

Can never make them eerie. 
O why should fate sic pleasure have. 

Life's dearest bands untwining" ? 
Or why sae sweet a flower as love. 

Depend on Fortune's sliming ? 



GALL A WATER. 



There's braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes. 
That wander thro' the blooming- heather; 

But Yarrow braes, nor Ettric shaws, 
Can match the lads o' Galla water. 

But there is ane, a secret ane, 
Aboon them a' I lo'e him better ; 

And Fll be his, and he'll be mhie, 
The bonnie lad o' Galla water. 

Altho' his daddie was nae laird, 
And tlio' I hae nae meikle tocher ; 

Yet rich in kindest, truest love. 
We'll tent our flocks by Galla water. 

It ne'er was wealth, it ne'er was wealth, 
That coft contentment, peace, or pleasure. 

The bands and bliss o' nmtual love, 
O that's the cliiefest warld's treasure ! 



LORD GREGORY. 

i) MIRK, mirk is this midnight hour. 
And loud the tempest's roar ; 

A wacfu' wanderer seeks thy tow'r, 
Lord Gregory, ope thy door. 



An exile frae her father's ha'. 
And a' for loving thee ; 

At least some pitij on me shaw. 
If love it may na be. 



Lord Gregory, mind'st thou not Iho grove. 

By bonnie Irwine side, 
Where first 1 own'd that virgin-love 

I lang, lang had denied. 



How aften didst thou pledge and vow. 

Thou wad for ay be mine 1 
And my fond heart, itsel sae true, 

It ne'er mistrusted thine. 



Hard is thy heart, Lord Gregory, 

And flinty is thy breast : 
Thou dart of heaven that flashest by, 

O wilt thou give me rest ! 

Ye mustering thunders from above, 

Your willing victim see ! 
But spare, and pardon my fause love, 

His wrangs to heaven and me ! 



MARY MORISON. 



Tune— "Bide ye yet." 



O Mary, at thy window be. 

It is the wish'd, the trysted hour ! 
Those smiles and glances let me see. 

That make the miser's treasure poor j 
How bUthly wad I bide the stoure, 

A weary slave frae sun to sun ; 
Could I the rich reward secure. 

The lovely Mary Morison. 

Yestreen when to the trembling strmg. 

The dance gaed thro' the lighted ha' 
To thee my fancy took its wing, 

I sat, but neither heard or saw : 
Tho' this was fair, and that was bra-iy, 

And yon tlie toast of a' the town, 
I sigh'd, and said amang them a', 

" Ye are na ^lary Morison." 



O Marj', canst thou wreck Jiis peace, 

Wha for thy sukc wad gladly die? 
Or canst thou break that heart of liis, 

Whase only fault is loving thee? 
If love for love thou v/iltna gie, 

At least be pity to me shown ! 
A thought ungentle canna be 

The thought o' Mary Morison. 



68 



BURNS' POEMS. 



WANDERING WILLIE. 

Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie, 
Now tired with wandering, haud awa liame; 

Come to my bosom my ae only dearie, 
And tell me thou bring'st me my Willie tlie 
same. 

Loud blew tlie cauld winter winds at our part- 
ing; 
It was na the blast brought the tear to my 
e'e : 
Now welcome the simmer, and welcome my 
_ Willie, 
The simmer to nature, my Willie to me. 

Ye hurricanes, rest in the cave o' your slum- 
bers, 
O how your wild horrors a lover alarms ! 
Awaken ye breezes, row gently ye billows, 
And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my 
arms. 

But if he's forgotten his faithfullest Nannie, 
O still flow between us, thou wide roaring 
main ; 

May I never see it, may I never trow it, 
but dying believe tliat my Wilhe's my ain ! 



THE SAME, 



As altered by Mr. Eiskine and Mr. Thomson, 

Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie, 
Here awa, there awa, haud awa hame. 

Come to my bosom my ain only dearie. 
Tell me thou bring'st me my Willie the 
same. 

Winter-winds blew loud and caul at our part- 
ing, 
Fears for my Willie brought tears in my e'e. 
Welcome now simmer, and welcome my Wil- 
lie, 
As simmer to nature, so WilUe to me. 

Rest, ye wild storms, in the cave o' your slum- 
bers. 
How your dread howling a lover alarms ! 
Blow soft ye breezes ! roll gently ye billows ! 
And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my 
arms. 

But oh, if he's faithless, andminds na his Nannie, 
Flow still between us thou dark-heaving 
main ! 

May I never see it, may I never trow it. 

While dyin^ I tliink that my Willie's m}' ain. 



Our Poet, with his usual judgment, adopted some of 
these alterations, and rejected others. 7'Ac last edi- 
tion is as follows : 

Kere awa, there awa, wandering Willie, 
Here awa, there awa, haud awa iiame ; 

Come to my bosom my ain only dearie, 
Tell me tliou bring'st me my WiUie the same. 

Winter winds blew loud and cauld at our part- 
ing. 
Fears for my Willie brought tears in my e'e, 
Welcome now simmer, and welcome my ^\ il- 
lie. 
The simmer to nature, my Willie to me. 

Rest, ye wild storms m the cave of your slum- 
bers. 
How your dread howling a lover alarms ! 
Wauken yo breezes, row gently ye billows. 
And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my 
arms. 

But oh ! if he's faithless, and mmds na Ins 
Nannie, 
Flow still between us thou wide-roaring 
main ; 
May I never see it, may I never trow it, 
But, dying, believe that my Willie's my 
ain. 



OPEN THE DOOR TO ME, OH 



WITH ALTERATIONS. 

Oh, open the door, some pity to show. 

Oh, open the door to me, Oh I 
Tho' thou hast been false, I'll ever prove true, 

Oh, open the door to me. Oh I 

Cauld is the blast upon my pale cheek. 
But caulder thy love for me. Oh ! 

The frost that freezes the life at my heart, 
Is nought to my pains frae thee, Oh 1 

The wan moon is setting behind the white 
wave, 

And time is setting with me, Oh ! 
False friends, false love, farewell I for mair 

I'll ne'er trouble them, nor tliee, Oh 1 

She has open'd the door, she has open'd it 
wide ; 
She sees his pale corse on the plain, Oh ! 
My true love, she cried, and sank down bj 
his side. 
Never to rise again, Oh ! — 



BURNS' POEMS. 



89 



JESSIE. 



Tune — " Bonny Dundee." 



True hearted was lie, the sad swain o' the 
Yarrow, 
And fair are the maids on the banks o' the 

Ay, . ,. 

But by tlie sweet side o' the Nith's winding 
river, 
Are lovers as faithful, and maidens as fair : 
To equal young Jessie seelc Scotland all over ; 

To equal young Jessie you seek it in vain ; 
Grace, beauty, and elegance fetter her lover. 
And maidenly modesty fixes the chain. 

O, fresli is the rose in the ga}', dewy morning. 

And sweet is the lily at evening close ; 
But in the fair presence o' lovely young Jessie, 

Unseen is the lily, unheeded the rose. 
Love sits in her smile, a wizard ensnaring ; 

Enthron'd in her een he delivers his law ; 
And still to her charms she alone is a stranger ! 

Her modest demeanour's the jewel of a'. 



Wi' alter'd voice, quoth I, sweet lass, 

Sweet as yon hawthorn's blossom, 
O ! happy, happy may he be, 

That's dearest to thy bosom 1 
My purse is light, I've far to gang, 

And fain wad be thy lodger ; 
I've serv'd my king and country lan^, 

Take pity on a sodger. 



Sac wistfully she gaz'd on me, 

And lovelier was than ever : 
Quo' she, a sodger ance I lo'ed, 

Forget him shall I never : 
Our humble cot, and hamely fare, 

Ye freely shall partake it. 
That gallant badge, the dear cockadci 

Ye're welcome for the sake o't. 



She gaz'd — she redden'd like a rose— 

Sj'ne pale like ony lily ; 
She sank within my arms, and cried. 

Art thou my ain dear Willie ? 
By him who made yon sun and sky— 

By whom true love's regarded, 
I am the man ; and thus may still 

True lovers be rewarded. 



V/IIEN WILD WAR'S DEADLY BLAST 
WAS BLAWN. 

Air—" The Mill Mill O." 



When wild war's deadly blast wasblawn, 

And gentle peace returning, 
Wi' mony a sweet babe fartherless, 

And mony a widow mourning, 
I left the Unes and tented field. 

Where lang I'd been a lodger, 
My humble knapsack a' my wealth, 

A poor and honest sodger. 

A leal, light heart was m my breast, 

My hand unstain'd wi' plunder ; 
And for fair Scotia's hame again, 

I cheery on did wander. 
I thought upon the banks o' Coil, 

I thought upon my Nancy, 
I thought upon the witching smile 

That caught my youthful fancy. 

At length I reach'd the bonnie glen, 

Where early life I sported ; 
I pass'd the mill, and trysting thorn. 

Where Nancy aft I courted : 
Wha spied I but my ain dear maid, 

Dovi'n by her mother's dwelling! 
And turn'd me round to hide the flood 

Tliat in my een was swelling. 
G 2 



The wars are o'er, and I'm come hame, 

And find thee still true-hearted ; 
Tho' poor in gear, we're rich in love. 

And mair we'se ne'er be parted. 
Quo' she, my grandsire left iiie gowd, 

A mailen plenish'd fairly ; 
And come, my faithfu' sodger lad, 

Thou'rt welcome to it dearly ! 

For gold the merchant ploughs the main, 

The farmer ploughs the manor ; 
But glory is the sodn-er's prize ; 

Thesodgcr's wealth is honour ; 
The brave poor sodger ne'er despise, 

Nor count him as a stranger. 
Remember he's his country's stay 

In day and hour of danger. 



MEG O' THE MILL. 



Air — " O bonny lass, will you lie in a Barrack?" 



O KEN ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten. 
An' ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has ootten' 
She has gotten a coof wi' a claut o' siller, 
And broken the heart o' the barley Miller. 

The Miller was strappir^ the Miller was ruddy, 
A heart like a lord, aiid a hue like a lady : 
The laird was a widdiefu', blcerit knurl : — 
She's left the guid fellow and ta'en the churl. 



9C 



BURNS' POEMS. 



The miller he heclit her heart leal and loving' : 
"^he Laird did address her wi' matter mair 

moving', 
A fine pacing liorse wi' a clear chained bridle, 
A wiiip by her side, and a bonnie side-saddle. 

O wao on the siller, it is sae prevailing; 
And wae on the love that is fix'd on a niailen ! 
A tociior's nao 'word in a true lover''s parle, 
Cut, "io mo my love, and a lig lor the warl ! 



SONG. 



Tune — " Liggeram Cosh." 

Elitiie hac 1 been on yon hill, 

As the lambs before me ; 
Careless ilka thought and free, 

As the breeze ilow o'er me : 
Now nae longer sport and play. 

Mirth or sang can please me ; 
Lesley is sao fair and coy, 

Care and anguish seize me. 

Heavy, heavy, is the task. 

Hopeless love declaring : 
Trembling, I dow nocht but glowV, 

Sighing, dumb, despairing! 
If she winna ease the thraws, 

In my bosom swelling ; 
Underneath the grass green-sod, 

Soon maun be my dwelling. 



SONG. 



Tune—" Logan "Water." 

O Logan, sweetly didst thou glide, 
That day I was my Willie's bride ; 
And 3'ears sinsyne has o'er us run. 
Like Logan to the simmer sun. 
But now tiiy flow'ry banks appear 
Like drumlie winter, dark and drear. 
While my dear lad maun face his faes, 
Far, far frae mo and Logan braes. 

Again the merry month o' May, 

Has made our hills and valleys gay ; 

The birds rejoice in leafy bow'rs. 

The bees hmn round the breathing flow'rs ; 

Blithe, morning lifts his rosy eye. 

And ev'ning's tears are tears of joy : 

My soul, delightless, a' surveys. 

While Willie's far frae Logan braes. 

Within yon milk-white hawthorn bush. 
Anumij her nestlings sits the Ihrush; 



Her faithfu' mate will share her toil, 
Or wi' his song- licr cares beguile, 
But I wi' my sweet nurslings jiere, 
Nao mate to help, nae mate to cheer, 
Pass widow'd nights and joyless days. 
While WiUie's far frae Logan braes I 

O wae upon you, men o' state, 
Tliat brethren rouse to deadly hate! 
As ye make niony a foud heart moura 
Sae may it on your heads return ! 
How can your tlinty licarts enjoy. 
The widow's tears, the oi'))han's cry? 
But soon may peace bring ha])i)y days, 
And Willie, hame to Logan braes ! 



FRAGMENT, 



WITHERSPOOK'S COLLECTIOJ/ 

OF 

SCOTS SONGS. 
Air — "Ilughie Graham." 

" O GIN my love were yon red rose. 
That grows upon the castle wa'. 

And I mysel a drop o' dew. 
Into her bonnie breast to fa' ! 

" Oh, there beyond expression blest, 
I'd feast on beauty a' the night ; 

Scal'd on her silk-saft faulds to rest. 
Till fley'd aw a' by Phosbus' light." 

* O were my love yon lilac fair, 
Wi' purple blossoms to the spring; 

And I, a bird to shelter there. 

When wearied on my little wing : 

How I wad mourn, when it was torn 
By autumn wild, and winter rude ! 

But ! wad sing on wanton wing. 

When youlhfu' JMay its bloom renew'd. ^ 



BONNIE JEAN. 

There was a lass, and she was fair. 
At kirk and market to be seen, 

Wlien a' the lairest maids were met. 
The fairest maid was bonnie Jean. 

* These fiianzas were added by Burna 



BURNS' POEMS 



And ay slio wrought her mammic's wark. 

And ay sho sang sao inorrilio : 
Tlio blithest bird upon the bush 

Had no'er a hgliler heart than she. 



But Iiawks will rob tlio tender joys 
That bless the little lintwhile's nest ; 

And frost will bliglit the fairest tlowVs, 
And love will break the soundest rest. 



Young Robio was the hrawest lad, 
The flower and pride o' a' the glen ; 

And lie had owscn, sheep and kye, 
And wanton naigics nine or ten. 



He gaed wi' Jeanie to the tryste, 
He dancM wi' Jeanie on the down ; 

And lang ere witless Jeanie wist, 
Her heart was tmt, her peace was stown. 



As in the bosom o' the stream. 
The moon beam dwells at dewy e'en; 

So trembling, pure, was tender love, 
Within the breast o' bonnie Jean. 



And now she works her mammic's wark, 
And ay she sighs wi' care and pain ; 

Ye wist na what hor ail might be. 
Or what wad rnak her weul again. 



But did na Jcanie's heart loup light. 

And did na joy blink in her e'e, 
As llobie tauld a talo o' love, 
Ac c'enin on the lily lea? 



Tlie sun was sinking in tlie west, 
Tlio birds sang swoct in ilka grove ; 

His check to hi^rs lie fondly prest, 
And whisper"d thus his tale o' love ; 



O Jeanie fair, T lo'e thoo dear; 

O canst thou tliiiik tolanry mo I 
Or wilt liiou leave thy inaiuniic's cot, 

And learn to tent the farms wi' me ? 



At barn or byre thou sh.-ilt na drudge, 
Or naotliing clsi; to troulile tiicic; 

But stray anianir the hcillior-ln^lls. 
And tent the wavinir corn wi' nie. 



Now wliat could artless J(!aii!e do? 

She had nae will to say him na: 
At lennrlh she blush 'd a sweet consent. 

And love was ay between them twa. 



PIIILUS THE FAIR. 
Tune — " Robin Adair." 

Wmii.k larks with little wing, 

l''anii'd the pure air, 
Tasting the breathhig spring, 

l''orth I did fare : 
Gay the sun's golden eye, 
Peej)'d o'er the mountains high; 
Such thy morn! did 1 cry, 

Phillis the fair 

In each bird's careless son"-, 

filad dill I share; 
Wliiie yon wild flow'rs among, 

Chance led me there : 
Sweet to the opening day. 
Rosebuds bent the dewy spray ; 
Such thy bloom I did Isay, 

Pliihis the fair. 

Down in a sliady walk. 

Doves cooing were, 
I mark'd the cruel liawk 

Caught in a snare : 
So kind may fortune be, 
Such make his destiny. 
He who would injure thoe, 

Phillis the fair. 



SONG. 

To tlie same Tune. 



Had I a cave on some wild, distant shore. 
Where the winds howl to the vaves' dashinjf 
There would I weep my wcee, [roar 

There seek my last repose, 
Till grief my eyes should close, 
Ne'er to walie more. 

Falsest of womankind, canst tliou declare. 
All thy fond plighted vows — fleeting as air' 
To thy now lover hie, 
Laugh o'er thy ])erjury. 
Then in thy bosom try, 

What peace is there ! 



SONG. 

TuME— " Allan Water." 

Bv Allan Htroam I chanc'd to rove, 

Wiiilo Pluebus sank beyond ]}i,nleddi ;♦ 

* A inouijtaiii west of Strath Allan, 3,()03 feeihign. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



The winds were whispering thro' the grove, 
The yellow corn was waving ready : 

I listened to a lover's sang, 

And thought on youthfu' pleasures mony ; 

And ay the wild-wood echoes rang — . 
O, dearly do I love thee, Annie 1 



O, happy be the woodbine bower, 

Nae nightly bogle make it eerie; 
Nor ever sorrow stain the hour, 

The place and time I mot my dearie ! 
Her head upon my throbbing breast, 

She, sinking, said, " I'm thine for ever !" 
While mony a kiss the seal imprest, 

The sacred vow, we ne'er should sever. 



The haunt o' spring's the primrose brae. 

The simmer joys the flocks to follow ; 
How cheery thro' her shortening day. 

Is autumn, in her weeds o' yellow ; 
But can they melt tlie glowing heart,' 

Or chain the soul in speeciiless pleasure. 
Or thro' each nerve the rapture dart. 

Like meethig her, our bosom's treasure? 



WHISTLE, AND I'LL COME TO YOU, 
MY LAD. 



O wnTSTLE, and I'll come to you, my lad : 
O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad : 
Tho' father and mither and a' should gue mad, 
O whistle, and 111 come to you, my lad. 



But warily tent, when ye come to court me. 
And come na unless the back-yett be a-jee ; 
Syne up the back-stile, and let nae body see, 
And come as ye were na comin to me, 
And come. Sic. 

O whisHe, Sec. 



At kirk, or at market, whene'er ye meet me. 
Gang by me astiio' that ye car'd na a the : 
But steal me a blink o' your bonnie black e'e, 
Yet look as ye were na looking at me. 
Vot look, &c. 

whisUe., &c. 



Ay vow and protest that ye care na for me. 
And whiles ye may lightly my beauty a wee; 
But court na anilhor, llio' jokin ye be. 
For fear that she wyle your fancy frae me. 
For fear, &c. 

O whittle, &c. 



SONG. 



Tune — " The mucking o' Gcordle's byre." 

AnowN winding Nith I did wander. 

To mark the sweet flowers as they spring ; 

Adown winding Nith I did wander. 
Of Pliillis to muse and to sing. 



^ira Ji'i' your belles and your beauties^ 
They merer wi' her can compare : 

Whaei^er has met ui'' my Phillis, 
Has met wC Ike queen oi' the fair. 

The daisy amus'd my fond fancy, 

So artless, so simple, so wild ; 
Tliou emblem, said I, o' my Phillis, 

For she is simplicity's chUd. 
Awa, kc. 

The rose-bud 's the blush o' my charmer, 
Her sweet balmy lip when 'tis pi est: 

How fair and how pure is tho lily, 
But fairer and purer her breast. 
Aua^ kc. 

Yon knot of gay flowers in the arbour. 
They ne'er wi' my Phiilis can vie : 

Her breath is the breath o' the woodbine 
Its dew-drop o' diamond, her eye. 
Awa^ kc. 

Her voice is the song of the morning 

That wakes thro' the green-spreading groVft 

When Pliocbus peeps over the mountama, 
On music, and pleasvne, and love. 
Awa, kc. 

But beauty how frail and how fleeting. 
The bloom of a fine summer's day ! 

While worth in the mind o' my Philhs 
Will flourish without a decay. 
Awd, kc 



SONG. 



Air—" Cauld Kail." 



Come, let me take thee to my breast, 
And pledge we ne'er shall sunder ; 

And i shall spurn as vilest dust 
The warld's wealth and grandeur 



BURNS' POEMS. 



And do 1 hear my Jeanie own, 
That equal transports move her? 

I ask for dearest life alone 
That I may live to love her. 

Thus in my arms, wi' all thy charms, 

I clasp my countless treasure ; 
ril seek nae mair o" heaven to share ; 

Than sic a moment's pleasure : 
And by thy een, sae bonnie blue, 

I swear Fm thine for ever ! 
And on thy lips I seal my vow, 

And break it shall I never. 



DAINTY DAVIE. 

Now rosy May comes in wi' flowers, 
To deck her gay, green spreading bowers ; 
And now comes in my happy hours. 
To wander wi' my Davie. 



Meet me on the ivarlock knowe. 
Dainty Davie, dainty Davie, 

There 111 spend the day wCyou, 
My ain dear dainty Davie, 

The crystal waters round us fa'. 
The merry birds are lovers a\ 
Tlie scented breezes round us blaw, 
A wandering wi' my Davie. 
Med me, &:c. 

"When purple morning starts the hare 
To steal upon her early fare, 
Then thro' the dews I will repair. 
To meet my faithfu' Davie. 
Meet me, kc. 

"Wnen day, expiring in tlie west, 
The curtain draws o' nature's rest, 
1 flee to his arms I lo'e best. 

And that's my ain dear Davie. 



Meet me on the irarlock knowe, 
Bonnie Davie, dainty Davie, 

There 1 11 spend the day wi you. 
My ain dear dainty Davie. 



SONG 

Tune—" Oran Gaoil." 

Bejiold the hour, the boat arrive ; 

Tiiou goest, thou darling of my heart ! 
Sever'd from thee can 1 survive ? 

But fate has will'd and we mu^t part. 



I'll often greet this surging swell. 
Yon distant isle will often hail : 

" E'en here I took the last farewell ; 
There latest mark'd her vanish 'd sail. ' 

Along the solitary shore. 

While flitting sea-fowl round me cry, 
Across the rolling, dashing roar 

I'll westward turn my wistful eye : 
Happy, thou Indian grove, I'll say, 

Where now my Nancy's path may be '. 
While thro' thy sweets she loves to stray, 

O tell me, does she muse on me ! 



SONG. 

Tune—" Fee him Father." 

Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, Thou hast left 

me ever. 
Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, Thou hast lefi 

me ever. 
Aften hast thou vow'd that death. Only should 

us sever. 
Now thou'st left thy lass for ay — I maun see 

thee never, Jamie, .. 

I'll see thee never. 

Thou hast mo forsaken, Jamie, Thou hast me 

forsaken. 
Tliou hast me forsaken, Jamie, Thou hast ma 

forsaken. 
Thou canst love anither jo. While my heart is 

brealiing. 
Soon my weary een I'll close — Never mair to 

waken, Jamie, 
Ne'er mair to waken. 



AULD LANG SYNE. 

Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 
And never brought to min' ? 

Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 
And days o' lang syne i 



For auld lang syne, my dear. 

For auld lang syne. 
We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet. 

For auld lang synt. 

We twa hae ran about the braes. 

And pu'l tlie gowans fine ; 
But we've wandered mony a weary footi 

Sin auld lang syne. 
For auld, kc. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



We twa liae paidl't V the bum, 

Frae mornin sun till dine : 
But seas between us braid hae roar'd. 

Sin auld lang syne. 
For auld, Sec. 

And here's a hand, my trusty fier. 

And gie's a hand o' thine ; 
And we'll tak a right guid-willie waught, 

For auld lang syne. 
For auld, kc. 

And surely ye '11 be your pint-stowp, 

And surely Til be mine ; 
And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, 

For auld lang syne. 
For auld, kc. 



BANNOCK-BURN 

ROBERT BRUCE'S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY. 

Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, 
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led. 
Welcome to your gory bed. 
Or to glorious victory. 

Now's the day, and now's the hour ; 
See the front o' battle lower ; 
See approach proud Edward's power 
Edward ! chains and slavery I 

Wha will be a traitor knave ? 
Wiia can fill a coward's grave ? 
Wha sae base as be a slave ? 

Traitor ! coward ! turn and flee ! 

Wha for Scotland's king and law 
Freedom's sword will strongly draw. 
Free-man stand, or free-man fa', 
Caledonian ! on wi' me ! 

By oppression's woes and pains ! 
By your sons in servile chains ! 
We will drain our dearest veins, 
But they shall be — shall be free ! 



Lay the proud usurpers low ! 
Tyrants fall in every foe ! 
Liberty's in every blow ! 
Forward ! let us do, or die ! 



FAIR JENNY. 

Tune — " Saw ye my father?" 

Where arc the joys I have met in the morning, 
That danc'd to the lark's early song ? , 

Wlicro is the peace that awaited my wand'ring, 
At evening the wild woods among ? 



No more a-winding the course of yon river. 
And marking sweet flow'rets so fair : 

No more 1 trace the light footsteps of pleasure. 
But sorrow and sad sighing care. 

Is it that summer's forsaken our valleys, 

And grim, surly winter is near ? 
No, no, the bees humming round the gay roses, 

Proclaim it the pride of the year. 

Fain would I hide what I fear to discover, 
Yet long, long too well liave I known : 

All that has caused this wreck in my bosom, 
Is Jenny, fair Jenny alone. 

Time cannot aid me, my griefs are immortal, 
Nor hope dare a comfort bestow : 

Come then, enamour'd and fond of my anguish, 
Enjoyment Til seek in my wo. 



SONG. 

Tune—" The Collier's Dochtcr." 

Deluded swain, the pleasure 
Tlie fickle Fair can give thee, 

Is but a fairy treasure, 

Thy hopes will soon deceive thee. 

The billows on the ocean. 
The breezes idly roaming. 

The clouds' uncertain motion, 
Tln.y are but types of woman. 

O art thou not ashamed, 
T" dote upon a feature ? 

If m 01 thou wouldst be named, 
r espise the silly creature. 

G'', find ?n honest fellow ; 

jood claret set before thee : 
P Id on till tJiou art mellow, 

A.nd tlien to bed ui glory. 



SONG. 

Tune—" The Quaker's wife." 

Thine am I, my faithful fair. 
Thine, my lovely Nancy ; 

Ev'ry pulse along my veins, 
Ev'ry roving fancy. 

To thy bosom lay my heart, 
There to throb and languish 

Tlio' despair had wrung its core, 
Tiiat would heal its ano-uish. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



95 



Take away these rosy lips. 

Rich witli bahiiy treasure : 
Turn awiiy Ihino eyes of love, 

Lost I die with pleasure. 



What is life when wanting love ? 

Ni<;lit witliout a inoriiing : 
Love's the cloudless summer sun, 

JNalure gay adorninjj. 



SONG. 



SONG. 



Tune—" Jo Janet." 



Husband, husband, cease your strife, 
Nor longer idly ravo, Sir ; 

The' I am your wedded wife, 
Yet I am not your slave, Sir. 



" One of two must still obey, 

Nancy, Nancy ; 
Is it man or woman, say, 
J\Iy spouse, Nancy ? 



If 'tis still the lordly word. 
Service and obedience ; 

ril desert my sovVeign lord. 
And so, good b'ye allegiance ! 



' Sad will I be, so bereft, 

Nancy, Nancy ; 
Yet I'll try to make a shift. 

My spouse, Nancy." 



My poor heart then break it must. 

My last hour Fni near it : 
When you lay me in the dust 

Think, tliink how you will bear it. 



" I will hope and trust in Heaven, 

Nancy, Nancy ; 
Strength to bear it will be given, 

My spouse, Nancy." 

Wi-il, Sir, from the silent dead 
Still ril try to daunt you ; 

Ever round your nndiiight bed 
Horrid sprites shall haunt you. 



" rU wed another, like my dear 

Nancy, Nancy ; 
Then all hell will fly for fear. 

My spouse. Nancy." 



Am—" The Sutor's Dochter." 

Wii.T thou be my dearie ? 

When sorrow wrings thy gentle heart. 

Wilt thou let me cheer tliee ? 

By the treasure of my soul. 

That's the love 1 bear Ihee ! 

I swear and vow that only thou 

Shall ever bo my dearie. 

Only thou, I swear and vow, 

Shall ever be my dearie. 

Lassie, say thou lo'es me ; 
Or if thou wilt na be my ain. 
Say na thou'lt refuse me ; 
If it winna, canna be, 
Thou, for thine may choose me, 
Let me, lassie, quickly die. 
Trusting that thou lo'es me. 
Lassie, let me quickly die, 
Trusting that thou lo'es me. 



BANKS OF CREE. 

Here is the glen, and here the bower, 
All underneath the birchen shade; 

The village-bell has toH'd the hour, 
O what can stay my lovely maid .' 

'Tis not Maria's whispering call ; 

'Tis but the balmy-breathing gale ; 
Mixt with some warbler's dying fall 

The dewy star of eve to hail. 

It is Maria's voice I hear ! 

So calls the woodlark in the grove. 
His little faithful mate to ciieer, 

At once 'lis music — and 'tis love. 

And art thou come ! and art thou true I 
O welcome dear to love and me 1 

And let us all our vows renew. 
Along the flowery banks of Cree. 



VERSES TO A YOUNG LADY, 

WITH 

A PRESENT OF SONGS. 

Here, where the Scottish muse immortal lives, 
In sacred strains and tuneful nunibors joiii'd, 

Accept the' gift ; tho' humble he who irives, 
Rich is the tribute of the grateful mind 



96 



BURNS' POEMS. 



So may no rulTian-fccnng in Ihy breast, 
Discordant jar tliy bosom-chords among ; 

But poaco attune tliy gentle soul to rest, 
Or love ecstatic wake his serapli song. 

Or pity's notes, in luxury of tears. 

As modest want tiie tale of wo reveals ; 

While conscious virtue all the strain endears. 
And heaven-born piety licr sanction seals. 



ON THE SEAS AND FAR AWAY. 

Tune—" O'er the Hills," &c. 

How can my poor heart be glad. 
When absent from my sailor lad ? 
How can I the tliough.t forego. 
He's on the seas to meet the foe ? • 
Let mo wander, let mc rove ; 
Still my heart is with my love ; 
Nightly dreams and thoughts by day 
Are with him that's far away. 



On the seas and far awnij. 
On stormi/ seas and far au-rty : 
JVijr/itlj^ dreams and Ihmighls by day 
Are ay icitit him lliaCsfai away. 

When in summer's noon I faint. 
As weary flocks around mc pant, 
Haply in this scorching sun 
My sailor's thund'rjng at his gun : 
Bullets, spare my inly joy ! 
Bullets, spare my darhng boy ! 
Fate do with mc what you may 
Spare but him that's far away I 
On the seas, &:c. 



At the starless midnight hour, 
When winter rules with boundless pow'r; 
As the storms the forests tear. 
And thunders rend the howling air. 
Listening to the doubling roar. 
Surging on the rocky shore, 
All J can — I weep and i)ray, 
For his weal that's far away 
0/4 the seas. Sec. 

Peace, thy olive wand extend, 
And bid wild war his ravage end, 
Man with brother man to meet, 
And as a brother kindly greet : 
Thou may heaven with prosp'rous gales, 
Fdl my sailor's welcome sails. 
To my arms their charge convey, 
My dcnr lad that's far away. 
On the seas kc. 



SONG 



Tune — " Ca' tlie Yowes to the Knowes." 



CHORUS. 

Ca" the yowes to the knowes, 
Ca'' them whare the heather grau^t 
Ca'' them whare the barnie rows, 
My bonnie dearie. 

Hark, the mavis' evening sang 
Sounding Cloudcn's woods amang ; 
Then a-faulding let us gang. 
My boimie dearie. 
Ca'' the, Sec. 

We'll gac down by Clouden side, 
Thro' tiie hazels sjireading wide. 
O'er the waves, that sweetly glide 
To the moon sac clearly. 
Ca'' the, kc. 

Yonder Cloudcn's silent towers, 
Where at moonshine midnight hours, 
O'er the dewy bending flowers, 
Fairies dance sae cheery. 
Ca" the, kc. 

Ghaist nor bogle shalt thou fear ; 
Thou'rt to love and lieav'n sae dear, 
Noclit of ill may come thee near. 
My bonnie dearie. 
Ca' the, kc. 



Fair and lovely as thou ajl. 
Thou hast stown my very heart ; 
I can die — but canna part, 
My bonnie dearie. 
Ca'' the, kc. 



SHE SAYS SHE LO'ES ME BEST 
OF A'. 

Tune—" Onagh's Water-fall." 

Sae flaxen were her ringlets, 

Her eyebrows of a darker hue, 
Bewitcliingly o'er-airhing 

Twa laughing ecn o' bonnie blue. 
Her smiling sae wyling, 

Wad make a wretch forget his wo ; 
AVhat pleasure, what treasure. 

Unto these rosy lips to grow I 
Such was my Chloris' bonnie face, 

\Vhcu first her bonnie face I saw ; 
And ay my Chloris' dearest charm. 

She says she lo'es nu best of a'. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



97 



Like harmony her motion ; 

Her pretty anclo is a spy 
Betraying' fair proportion, 

Wad niak a saint forgot the sky. 
Sae warming, sae charming. 

Her faultless form, and graccfu' air; 
Ilk feature — auld nature 

Declared tliat she could do nae mair: 
F-fcrs are the willing chains o' love, 

By conquering beauty's sovereign law ; 
And ay my Chloris' aearest charm, 

She says she lo'es me best of a'. 

Let others I'ove the city, 

And gaudy show at sunny noon ; 
Gie me the lonely valley, 

The dewy eve, and risking moon; 
Fair beaming, and streaming. 

Her silver light the boughs amang ; 
While falling, recalling, 

The amorous thrush concludes her sang 
There, dearest Chloris, wilt thou rove 

By wimpling burn and leafy sliaw, 
And hear my vows o' truth and love, 

And say thou lo'es me best of a' 1 



SAW YE MY PHELY. 

(Quasi dicat Phillis.) 

Tune — " When she cam ben she bobbit." 

SAW ye my dear, my Phely? 
O saw ye my dear, my Phely .'' 
She's down i' the grove, she's wi' a new love, 
She winna come hame to her Willy. 

What says slie, my dearest, my Phely ? 
What says she, my dearest, my Phely? 
She lets thee to wit that she has thee forgot, 
And for ever disowns thee lier Willy. 

O had 1 ne'er seen thee, my Pliely ! 
O had I ne'er seen thee, my Phely ! 
As light as the air, and fause as thou's fair, 
Thou's broken the heart o' thy Willy. 



SONG. 

Tune—" Cauld Kail in Aberdeen." 

How long and dreary is the night, 
When 1 am frao my dearie ; 

I restless lie frae e'en to morn, 
Tho' 1 were ne'er sae weary 
H 



For oh, her lane.ly nights are lavg 
Jlnd oh, her dreams are eerie ; 

And oh, her widowed heart is sair^ 
Tlial's absent frae her dearie. 

When I think on the lightsome days 
1 spent wi' thee my dearie ; 

And now what seas between us roar, 
How can 1 be but eerie ? 
For oh, Sec. 

How slow ye move, ye heavy hours ; 

The joyless day iiow dreary 1 
It was na sae ye glinted by, 

When I was wx' my dearie. 
For oil, fee. 



SONG. 



Tune — " Duncan Gray." 

Let not woman e'er complain. 

Of inconstancy in love; 
Let not woman e'er complain, 

J'ickle man is apt to rove : 

Look abroad through Nature's range, 
Nature's mighty law is change ; 

Ladies, would it not be strange, 
Man should then a monster prove ? 

Mark the winds, and mark the skies ; 

Ocean's ebb, and ocean's tiow : 
Sun and moon but set. to rise. 

Round and round the seasons go. 

Why then ask of silly man, 

To oppose great Nature's ])lan ? 

We'll be constant while we c;in — 
You can be no more, you know. 



THE LOVER'S MORNING SALUTE 
TO HIS MISTRESS. 

Tune—" Deil tak the Wars." 

Sleep'st thou, or wak'st thou, fairest crea 

Piosy morn nov/ lifts iiis eye, [ture 

Numbering ilka bud which Nature 

Waters wi' the tears o' joy : 

Now thro' the leafy woods, 

And by the reeking floods, 
Wild Nature's tenants, freely, gladly strav, 

The lintwhite in his bower 

Chants o'er the brealhing flower; 

The lav'rock to tiic sky 

Ascends wi' sangs o' joy, [day 

While the sun and thou arise to blcta the 



98 



BURNS' POEMS. 



Phcebus £fil(lin£f tlic brow o' morning, 

Banislies ilk dariisoine sluuic, 
Nature gladiicning' and adorning ; 

Such to nio my lovely maid. 

When absent Irae my fair, 

Tlie murky shades o' caro 
With starless gloom o'ercast my sullen sky ; 

Hut when, in beauty's li^Iit, 

She meets my ravisji'd sight, 

When liu'ough my very heart 

Tier bcamiiiij' glories dart ; 
'Tis then I wake to lil'e, to liglit, and joy. 



THE AULD MAN. 



Bi'T lately seen in gladsome green 

The woods rejoic'ti the day, 
Thro' gentle showers the laughing flowers 

In double pride were gay : 
But now our joys are fled. 

On winter blasts awa I 
Yet maiden May, in rich array, 

Airain sliall briiiir them a'. 



But my white pow, nao kindly thowe 

Shall melt the snaws of age; 
My trunk of cild, but buss or biold, 

Sinks in time's V\'iiitry rage. 
Oil, ago has weary days. 

And uiglits o' sleepless pain ! 
Thou golden time o' youthfu' prime, 

Why com'st thou not again 1 



SONG. 

Tune — " My Lodging is on the cold ground." 



Mv Chloris, mark how green the groves. 
The primrose banks how fair : 

The balmy gales awake the llowers, 
And wave thy flaxen hair. 

The lav'rock slums the palace gay, 

And o'er the cottage sings : 
For nature smiles as sweet 1 ween, 

To sheplierds as to kings. 



TiPt minstrels sweep the skilfu' string 

In lordly lighted ha": 
Tl'.e sliepherd stc.(>s his simple reed, 

Bliliie, in tlie birken siiaw. 



The princely revel may survey 

Our rustic dance wi' scorn ; 
But are their liearts as ligiit as ours 

Beneath tlie milk- white lliorn.' 

The shepherd, in the flowery glen, 
In shei)lH!rd's phrase will woo : 

The courtier tells a finer talo. 
But is his lieart as true ? 

Tlieso wild-wood flowers I've pu'd, to deck 

That siiotless breast o' thine : 
The courtiers' gems may witness love^ 

But 'lis na love like nnne. 



SONG, 

ALTERED FROM AN OLD ENGLISH ONE. 

It was the cliarming month of May, 
When all the flow'rs were fresh and gay, 
One morning, by the break of day. 
The youthful, charming Chloo ; 

From peaceful slumber she arose, 
Girt on her mantle and her hose. 
And o'er the flowery mead she goes, 
The youtiiful, charming Chloe. 



Lovcli; iras she hi/ the dairn, 

Yoitlliful Chh)c, charming Chloe, 

Trij'pins; o'er tlie pearli/ lairn. 
The yoathfuU charming Chloe. 

The feather'd people, you might see 
Perch 'd all around on every tree. 
In notes of sweetest melody, 
They hail the charming Chloe ; 

Till, painting gay the eastern skies. 
The glorious sun began to rise, 
Out-rivall'd by tiie radiant eyes 
Of youthful, charming Chloe 
Lovely was she, Sec. 



LASSIE Wr THE LINT-WPUTE LOCKS. 
Tune — " Rothemurchie's Rant." 

CHORUS. 

Lasine wV the lint-irhite locks, 

nonnie lassie, artless lassie, 
Wilt thou wi' me tent the flocks, 

M'iU Ikon be my dearie, .^ 



BURNS' POEMS. 



99 



Now nature deeds tlie flowery lea, 
And a' is younir and sweet like tliee ; 
wilt, thou share its joys wi' me. 
And say thou'lt bo my dearie, O? 
Lassie ".'*', &c. 



And when the welcome simmer-shower, 
Has clicerM ilk droopiriir little flower, 
We'll to the breatliiiiir woodhine bower 
At sultry noon, my dearie, O. 
Lassie wi\ Sec. 

Wjien Cynthia lights, wi' silver ray, 
The weary shearer's hameward way ; , 
Thro' yellow wavinif fields we'll stray, 
And talk o' love, my dearie, O. 
Lassie wi\ kc. 

And when the howling wintry blast 
Disturbs my lassie's midnig-ht rest; 
Enclasped to my faithfu' breast, 
I'll comfort thee, my dearie, O. 

Lassie ivi" the linl-ivkite locks, 

Bonnie lassie., artless lassir., 
xnill thou wi' me tent thejlocks. 

Wilt thou be my dearie, O ? 



DUET. 



SONG. 



Tune — ^" Nancy's to the Greenwood," &c. 



Farewell thou stream that winding flows 
Around Eliza's dwelling! 

mem'ry ! spare the cruel throes 
Within my bosom swelling: 

Condonin'd to (lra«j a hopeless chain, 

And yet in secret languish, 
To feel a fire in ev'r}' vein. 

Nor dare disclose my anguish. 

Love's veriest wretch, unseen, unknown, 

I fain my oriefs would cover : 
The bursting sigh, th' nnweeting groan, 

Hctray the iiaplcss lover. 

1 know ihou doom'st me to despair, 

Nor vvilt. nor canst relieve me ; 
But oh, Eii/.a, hear one prayer, 
For pity's sake forgive me. 

The music of thy voice I heard, 

'Vor wist while it enslav'd me; 
I saw thine eyes, yet nothing fear'd, 

Till fi;ars no more had sav'd me : 
Til' imwary sailor thus aghast. 

The wheeling torrent viewing; 
'Mid circling horrors sinks at last 

In overwhelming nun. 



Tune— "The Sow's Tail." 



-O PiiiLLV, happy be that day 
When roving through the gathcr'd hay 
My youthfu' heart was stown away, 
And by thy charms, my Pliilly. 



SHE — O Willy, ay I bless the grove 

Where first I own'd my maiden love, 
Whilst thou did pledge the Poweis 
above 
To be my ain dear Willy. 



HE— As songsters of the early year 
Are ilka day raair sweet to hear, 
So ilka day to me mair dear 
And charming is my Philly. 



SHE— As on the brier the budding rose 

Still richer breathes, and fairer blows, 
So in my tender bosom grows 
The love I bear my Willy. 

HE — The milder snn and bluer sky, 

That crown my harvest cares wi' joy. 
Were ne'er sae welcome to my eye 
As is a siglit o' Philly. 



SHE — The little swallow's wanton wing, 
Tho' wafting o'er the flowery spring. 
Did ne'er to me sic tidings bring, 
As meeting o' my Willy. 



HE — The bee that thro' the sunny hour 
Sips nectar in the 0[)cning flower, 
Compar'd wi' my delight is poor, 
Upon tho lips o' Philly. 



SHE — The woodbine in the dew)' weet 

When evening shades in silence meet, 
Isn 1 ht sae fragrant or sae sweet 
Ai! is a kiss o' Willy. 

HE — Let fortune's wheel at random rin. 

And fools may tine, and knaves maj 

win ; 
My thoughts are a' bound up in ane, 
And that's my ain dear Philly. 

SHE — What's a' the joys that gowd can gie ! 
I care nae wealth a single flic ; 
The lad I love's the lad for me. 
And that's my ain dear Willy. 



LcFC 



too 



BURNS' POEMS. 



SONG. 



Tune — ^" Lumps o' Pudding. 

CoNTF.NTr.D wi' liltlo, and caiitio wP mair, 
Whene'er I forjrat.lior wi' sorrow and caro, 
I <iio them a skelp, as tliey'ro creepin alaiin;', 
Wi' a COLT o' (Tuid swats, and an auld ScuUish 



troublesome 



I whylos claw tho elbow 

Thoujvlit ; 
}i\i\. man is a sofjer, and life is a faufjht : 
My mirth and guid humour are coin in my 

poucli, 
And my Freedom's my lairdship nae monarch 

dare touch. 



A (owmond o' trouble, should tliat bo my fa', 
A night o' guid fellowsliip sowthers it a' : 
When at tlio blithe end o' our journey at last, 
Wha tho doil ever tliinks o' tiio road ho has 
past ? 

Blind chance, let her snapper and stoyte on her 

way ; 
Bo't to me, be't frao mo, e'en lot the jade gao : 
Coino oaso, or conio travail ; conio pleasure, 

or pain. 
My warst word is — " Welcome, and welcome 

ajrain !" 



CANST THOU LEAVE ME THUS, MY 
KATY? 

Tune — " Roy's wife." 



Cansl Ihon leave me fhus, my Katy? 

Caiisl thou, have me thus, mi/ Katii? 
If 'til tlioii knoir'sl mi/ achiii!:; heart, 
-liid cansl thou leave me thus for pity? 

Is (his liiy pliohted, fond regard, 
Thus cruelly to part, my Katy ? 

Is tliistliy faithftd swain's reward^ 
An aciiing, broken heart, my Katy? 
Canst thou, &:c. 

Farewell I and ne'er such sorrows tear 
That fickle lieart of thine, my Katy! 

Thou may'st find those will love thee dear- 
But not a love like n;ine, my Katy. 
Canst thou, &:c. 



MY NANNIE'S AWA. 



Tune — " There'll never bo peace." &c. 



Now in her green mantle blithe nature arrays, 
And listens tlie lambkins that bleat o'er the 
braes, [shaw; 

While birds warble welcome in ilka green 
But to mo it's delightless — my Nannie's awji. 

The snaw-drap and primrose our woo^lland 

* adorn, 
And violets bathe in the wcot o' the mo.n ; 
They pain my sad bosom sae sweetly they 

blaw. 
They mind mo o' Nannie — and Nannie's awa. 

Tliou lav'rock that springs frae tlie dews of tho 

lawn, 
The shephord to warn o' tho gray-breaking 

dawn, 
And thou mellow mavis that hails the night-fa' 
Give over for pity — my Nannie's awa. 



Come, autumn, sae pensive, in yellow and 

gray. 
And sooth mo wi' tidin? o' nature's decay : 
The dark, dreary winter, and wild-driving 

snaw, 
Alane can dcliiiht me— now Namiie's awa. 



FOR A' THAT AND A' THAT 



Is there, for honest poverty. 

That hangs his head, and a'' that • 
Tho coward-slave, we jiass iiim by, 

We dare be poor for a' tliat ! 
For a' that, and a' that. 

Our toil's obscure, and a' that. 
The rank is but the guinea's stamp, 

The man's tiio iiowd for a' tliat. 



Wiat tho' on hamely fare we dine. 

Wear lioddin gray, and a' that ; 
Gie fools their silks, and knaves tlieirwine 

A man's a man for a' that; 
For a' that, and a' that, 

Tiieir tinsel show, and a' that; 
The honest man, though e'er sae poor. 

Is kiuir o' men for a' tliat 



Ye SCO yon birkie, ca'd a lord, 

Wha struts, and stares, and a' tliat; 

Tiio' lumdrods worship at l^is word, 
He's but a coof for a' that : 



BURNS' POEMS. 



lOl 



For a' lliat, and a tint, 

Mis riband, star, and a' tliat, 

Tlio man of indc[)eii(lf^iil mind, 
llo looks and lauj^lis at a' tliat. 



A princo can niak a licltod kniirlit, 

A iriarquiK, duko, and a' that ; 
But an honest man's aboon his might, 

Gnid lailii ho rnauna fa' that ! 
For a' tliat, and a' that. 

Their diirnilios, and a' that, 
Tli(! i)itli o sense, and pride o' worth, 

Arc hiirhcr raidts tiian a' that. 



Thon let us pray that como it may, 

As como it will for a' that, 
That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth, 

May hear the grec, and a' that. 
For a' that, and a' that, 

It's coming yet, for a' that, 
That man to man, the warld o'er, 

Sliall brothers be for a' that. 



■• SONG. 

Tune — Craigie-bum-wood. 

SwKKT fa's the cvo on Craigie-bum, 
And blithe awakes the morrow, 

But a' the pride o' spring's return 
Can yield mo nocht but sorrow. 

I sec the flowers and spreading trees, 
T hear the wild birds singing : 

But what a weary wight can plcaso, 
And care his bosom wringing .'' 

Fain, fain would I my griefli impart, 

Yot dare na for your anger ; 
But secret love will break my heart. 

If 1 conceal it langer. 

If thou refuse to pity me. 

If thou shalt love anilher, 
When yon green leaves fade frae the tree. 

Around my grave they'll wither. 



SONG. 

Tune — " Let mc in lliis ae night." 

O i-ASSiE, art thou sleeping yot ? 
Or art tlion wakin, I would wit ? 
For love has bound me hand and foot, 
And I would fain be in, jo. 



O If I me in this ae nighl, 

This ffle, rtfi, ae nif^/ii ; 
For pull's sake this ae night, 

O rise and let mc in, jo. 

Thou licars't tlio winter wind and weet, 
Nao star blinks thro' tho driving sleet ; 
Tak pity on my weary feet. 
And sliield mo frao tho rain, jo. 
O lei me in. Sec. 

Tho bitter blast that round mo blaws 
Unliocded howls, unheeded fa's; 
Tho cauldness o' thy jicart's tho cause 
Of a' my grief and i)ain, jo. 
O let me in, &c 



IIER ANSWER. 

O TELL na mo o' wind and rain, 
Upbraid na mo wi' cauld disdain I 
Gao back tho gate yc cam again, 
I winna let you in, jo. 



/ trll 1/ou now this ae night. 

This ae, ae, ae night ; 
And ancefur a' this ae night, 

I winna let you in, jo. 

Tho snellest blast, at mirkest hours, 
That round the pathless wand'rer poura. 
Is nocht to what poor she endures. 
That's trusted faitidess man, jo. 
/ tell you now, kc. 

Tho sweetest flower that deck'd the mead, 
Now trodden like tho vilest weed ; 
Let simple maid tho lesson read, 
The weird may Ijo lier ain, jo, 
1 tell you 71010, Sec. 

The bird that charm'd his summer-day, 
Is now the cruel fowler's prey ; 
Let witless, trusting woman say 
How aft her fate^s tho same, jo, 
/ tell you now. Sec. 



ADDRESS TO THE WOOD-LARK. 

Tune — '■'• Where'll bonnie Ann lie." Or, " I. och- 
Eroch Side." 

O STAY, sweet warbling wood-lark stay. 
Nor quit for mo tho trembling spray, 



102 



BURNS' POEMS. 



A hiipless lover courts thy lay, 
Thy soothing, fond complaining. 

Again, again that tender part, 
That 1 may catch thy melting art ; 
For surely tliat wad touch her heart, 
Wha kills me wV disdaining. 

Say, was thy little mate unkind, 
And heard thee as the careless wind ? 
Oil, nociit but love and sorrow join 'J, 
Sic notes o' wo could wauken. 

Thou tells o' never-ending care ; 
O' speechless grief, and dark despair ; 
For pity's sake, sweet bird, nae mair ! 
Or my poor heart is broken ! 



ON CIILORIS BEING ILL, 

Tune—" Ay wakin O." 



Lons:, long the night, 
llenvij comes the morrotv. 

While rn}i souVs delight. 
Is on her bed of sorrow. 

Can T cease to care? 

Can I cease to languish. 
While my darling fair 

Is on the couch of anguish? 
Long, (Sec. 

Every hope is fled. 
Every fear is terror ; 

Slumber even I dread, 
Evei'y dream is horror. 
Long, &c. 

Hear me, Powr's divine ! 

Oh, in pity hear me ! 
Take aught else of mine, 

But my Chloris spare me ! 
Long, Sec. 



SONG. 

Tune — " Humours of Glen." 

Their groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign lands 

reckon, [perfume, 

\Vliere bright-beaming summers exalt the 

Far dearer to me yon lone glen o' green breckan, 

Wi' tlie burn stealing under the lang yellow 

broom. 



Far dearer to me are yon humble broom bowers, 

Where the blue-bell and gowan lurk lowly 

unseen : [flowers. 

For there, liglitly tripping amang the wild 
A-listening the linnet, aft wanders my Jean, 

Tho' rich is the breeze in their gay sunny val- 
leys. 
And cauld Caledonia's blast on the wave ; 
Their sweet-scented woodlands that skirt the 
proud palace, [slave ! 

What are they ? The haunt of the tyrant and 

The slave's spicy forests, and gold-bubblijig 
fountains. 
The brave Caledonian views wi' disdain ; 
He wanders as free as the winds of his moun- 
tains. 
Save love's willing fetters, tho chains o' his 
Jean. 



SONG. 

Tune — " Laddie, lie near me." 

'TwAS na her bonnie blue e'e was my ruin ; 
Fair llio' she be, that was ne'er my undoing : 
'Twas the dear smile when nacbody did mind 

us, 
'Twas the bewitching, sweet, stown glance o* 

kindness. 

Sair do I fear that to hope is denied mo, 
Sair do I fear that desjjair maun abide me ; 
IJut tlio' foil fortune sliould fiitc us to sever, 
Queen shall siic be in my bosom for ever. 

Mar}^ I'm thine wi' a passion sinccrest. 
And thou hast plighted me love o' the dearest, 
And thou'rt the angel that never can alter. 
Sooner the sun in his motion would falter. 



ALTERED FROM AN OLD ENGLISH 
SONG. 

Tune — " John Anderson my jo." 

How cruel are the parents 

Who riches only prize. 
And to tho v/ealthy booby. 

Poor woman sacritictj. 
Meanwhile tlie hapless daughter 

Has but a choice of strife ; 
To shun a tyrant father's iiate, 

Become a wretched wife. 

The ravening hawk pursuing. 
The trembling dove thus flies, 

To slum impelling ruin 
A while her pinions ti'iea. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



103 



Till of escape despairing, 

No slicker or retreat. 
She trusts the ruthless falconer, 

And drops beneath his feet. 



SONG. 

Tune—" Deil tak the Wars." 



Mark yonder pomp of costly fashion, 

Round the wealthy, titled bride : 
But when compared with real passion, 
Poor is all that princely pride. 
What are the showy treasures? 
What are the noisy pleasures ? 

The g'ay, gaudy glare of vanity and art: 
Tiie polish'd jewcFs blaze 
May draw the wond'rmg gaze. 
And courtly grandeur bright 
The fancy may delight, 

But never, never can come near the heart. 



But did you see my dearest Chloris, 

In simplicity's array ; 
Lovely as yonder sweet opening flower is. 
Shrinking from the gaze of day. 
O then, the heart alarming. 
And all resistless charming, 
In Love's delightful fetters she chauis the 
willing soul ! 
Ambition would disown 
The world's imperial crown 
Even Avarice would deny 
His worshipp'd deity. 
And feel thro' every vein Love's raptures roll. 



SONG. 



Tune — This b no my ain House. 



O this is no my ain lassie., 
Fair tho' the lassie be ; 

veel ken I my ain lassie^ 
Kind love is in her e'e. 

\ 5EE a form, I see a face. 
Ye wcel may wi' the fairest place : 
It wants, to me, the witching grace, 
The kind love that's in her e'e. 
O this is no. Sec. 



She's bonnie, blooming, straight, and tall 
And lang has had my heart in thrall ; 
And ay it charms my very saul. 
The kind love that's in her e'e. 
O this is no. Sec. 



A thief sae pawkie is my Jean, 
To steal a bliuk, by a' unseen ; 
But gleg as light are lovers' een. 
When kind love is in the o'e, 
this is no, &c. 



I may escape the courtly sparks. 
It may escape the learned clerks; 
But weel the watciiing lover marks 
The kind love that's in her e'e. 
O this is no, &cc. 



TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 



SCOTTISH SONG. 

Now spring has clad the groves in green, 

And strew'd the lea wi' flowers ; 
The I'urrow'd, waving corn is seen 

Ilejoice in fostering showers ; 
While ilka thing in nature join 

Their sorrows to forego, 
O why thus all alone are mine 

The weary steps of wo ! 

The trout witliin yon wimplin burn 

Glides switt, a silver dart, 
And safe beneath the shady thorn 

Defies the angler's art : 
My life was ance that careless stream, 

That wanton trout was I ; 
But love, wi' unrelenting beam, 

Has scorch'd my fountains dry. 

The little flow'ret's peaceful lot. 

In yonder cliff" that grows, 
Which, save the linnet's flight, I wot, 

Nae ruder visit knows, 
Was mine ; till love has o'er me past. 

And blighted a' my bloom, 
And now beneath the withering blast 

My youth and joys consume. 

The waken'd lav'rock warbling springs, 

And climbs the early sky, 
Winnov/ing blithe her dewy wings 

In morning's rosy eye ; 
As little reckt I sorrow'^ power. 

Until the flowery snare 
O' witching love, in luckless hour 

Made me the thrall o' caxe. 



104 



BURNS' POEMS. 



O had rnjr fate been Greenland snows, 

Or Aftic's burning zone, 
Wi' man and nature leagu'd my foes, 

So Feggy ne'er I'd known ? 
The wretch whase doom is, " hope nao mair," 

What tongue his woes can tell ! 
Within whase bosom, save despair, 

Nae kinder spirits dwell. 



SCOTTISH SONG. 



O BONNIE was yon rosy brier, 

That blooms sae far frae haunt o' man ; 
And bonnie she, and ah, how dear I 

It shaded frae the e'enin sun. 



Yon rosebuds in the morning dew, 

How pure amang the leaves sae green ; 

But purer was the lover's vow 

They witness'd in their shade yestreen. 

All in its rude and prickly bower. 

That crimson rose, how sweet and fair I 

But love is far a sweeter flower 
Amid life's thorny path o' care. 

The pathless wild, and wimpling bum, 
Wi' Chloris in my arms, be mine ; 

And I, the world, nor wish, nor scorn, 
Its joys and griefs alike resign. 



WRITTEN on a blank leaf of a copy of hii 
Poems presented to a Ladi/., tvhomhe had often 
celebrated under the name of Chloris. 

'Tls Friendship's pledge, my young, fair Friend, 

Nor thou the gift refuse. 
Nor with unwilling ear attend 

The moralizing muse. 

Smce, tliou, in all thy youth and charms, 

Must bid tlte world adieu, 
(A world 'gainst peace in constant arms) 

To join the friendly £q\v. 

ymce thy gay morn of life o'ercast. 

Chill camo tlie tempest's lower : 
(And ne'er misfortune's eastern blast 

Did nip a fairer flower.) 

Since life's gay scenes must charm no more. 

Still mucli is leftl)ehind ; 
Still nobler wealth hast tiiou in store. 

The comforts of the mind ! 



Thine is the self-approving glow, 
On conscious lionour's part; 

And, dearest gift of heaven below 
Thine friendship's truest heart. 

The joys refin'd of sense and taste, 
Witii every nmse to rove : 

And doubly were tiie poet blest 
Tliese joys could he uiiprove. 



ENGLISH SONG. 

Tune — " Let me in this ae night." 

Forlorn, my love, no comfort near. 
Far, far from thee, I wander here 
Far, far from thee, the fate severe 
At which I most repine, love. 



O wert Ihoii, Imie, but near tne, 
But 7iear, near, near me; 
How kindly thou wouldst cheer me. 
And 7ni7igle sighs with mine, love. 

Around me scowls a wintry sky, 
That blasts each bud of hope and joy; 
And shelter, shade, nor home have 1, 
Save in those arms of thine, love. 
wert, &c. 

Cold, alter'd friendship's cruel part, 

To poison fortune's ruthless dart — 

Let me not break thy faithful lieart, 

And say that fate is muie, love. 

O tverl, &c. 

But dreary tho' the moments fleet, 
O let me think we yet shall meet 1 
That only ray of solace sweet 
Can on thy Chloris shine, love. 
wert, &c. 



SCOTTISH BALLAD. 

Tune— "The Lotliian Lassie." 

L.'-ST May a braw wooer cam down the lang 
glen. 
And sair wi' his love he did deave me ; 
I said there was naething I hated like men, 
The deuce gao wi'm, to believe me, belicvo 

me. 
The deuce gae wi'm, to believe me 



BURNS' POEMS. 



105 



He spak o' the darts in my bonnie black e'en, 
And vow^d for my love he was dying ; 

I said he might die when he liked, for Jean, 
The Lord forgie me for lying, for lyhig, 
The Lord forgie nie for lying ! 

A wecl-stocked mailen, himsel for the laird, 
And marriage aff-hand, were his proffers : 

I never loot on that I kenn'd it, or car'd, 
But thought I might hao waur offers, waur 

offers, 
But thaught I might hae waur offers. 

But what wad ye think ? in a fortnight or less, 
The deil tak his taste to gae near her ! 

He up the lang loan to my black cousin Bess, 
Guess ye how, the jad ! 1 could bear her, 

could bear her. 
Guess ye how, the jad ! I could bear her. 

But a' the niest week as I fretted wi' care, 
I gaed to the tryste o' Dalgarnock, 

And wha but my fine fickle lover was there, 
I glowr'd as Fd seen a warlock, a warlock, 
1 glowr'd as Fd seen a warlock. 

But owre my left shouther I gae him a blink, 
Lest neebors might say I was saucy ; 

My wooer he caper'd as he'd been in drink. 
And vow'd I was his dear lassie, dear lassie. 
And vow'd I was his dear lassie. 

I spier'd for my cousin fu' couthy and sweet. 

Gin she had recover'd her hearin. 
And how her new shoon fit lier auld shachl't 
feet, 
But, heavens ! how he fell a swearin, a 

swearin. 
But heavens ! how he fell a swearin. 

He begged, for Gudesake ! I wad be his wife, 
Or else I wad kill him wi' sorrow : 

So e'en to preserve the poor body in life, 
1 think I maun wed him to-morrow, to-mor- 
row, 
I think I maun wed him to-morrow. 



FRAGMENT. 



Tune -" The Caledonian Hunt's Delight." 

Why, why tell thy lover. 

Bliss ho never must enjoy ! 
Why, why undeceive him, 

And give all his hopes the he ? 

O why, while fancy, raptur'd, slumbers, 
Chloris, Chloris all tlie theme ; 

Why, why wouldst thou cruel. 
Wake thy lover from his dream? 
H2 



HEY FOR A LASS WI' A TOCHER. 

Tune — " Balinamona era." 

AwA wi' your witchcraft o' beauty's alarms. 
The slender bit beauty you grasp in your 

arms; 
O, gie me the lass that has acres o' charms, 
O, gie me the lass wi' the weel-slockit farms. 



Then hey, for a lass wV a tocJier, then hey for 

a lass U'V a tocher, 
TTien hey, for a lass wV a tocher ; the nice 

yellow guineas for me. 

Your beauty's a flower, in the morning that 

blows. 
And withers the faster, the faster it grows ; 
But tlie rapturous charm o' the bonnie green 

knowes, 
Dk spring they're new deckit wi' bonnie white 

yowes. 
Then hey, Sec. 

And e'en when this beauty your bosom has 
blest, [sest ; 

The brightest o' beauty may cloy, when pos- 

But the sweet yellow darlings wi' Geordie im- 
prest. 

The langer ye hae them — the mair they're 
carest. 
Then hey, &c. 



SONG. 

Tune—" Here's a health to thera that's awa, 
hiney." 



Here''s a health to ane I lo''e dear, 

Here^s a health to ane 1 lo''e dear 

Thou art sweet as the smile ivhenfond lovers meeti 

And soft as Iheir parting tear — Jessy ! 

Altiio' thou maun never be mine, 

Altho' even hope is denied ; 
'Tis sweeter for thee despairing, 

Than aught in tlie world beside — Jessy 
Here^s a health, kc. 

I mourn thro' the gay, gaudy day. 
As, hopeless, I nmse on thy charms ; 

But welcome the dream o' sweet slumber. 
For then I am lockt in thy arms — Jessy ! 
Here^s a health, &cc. 



106 



BURNS' POEMS. 



I guoss by the dear angel smile, 
1 guess by the love-rolling e'e ; 

But why urge the tender confession 

'Gainst fortune's fell cruel decree — ^Jessy ! 
Here's a health, &cc. 



SONG. 

Tune — " Rothermurchies's Rant." 



Fairest maid on Devon banks. 
Crystal Devon, winding Devon, 

Wilt thou lay that frown aside, 
And smile as thou were wont to do? 

Full well thou know'st I love thee dear, 
Couldst thou to malice lend an ear ! 
O, did not love exclaim, " Forbear, 
Nor use a faithful lover so ?" 
Fairest maid, &c. 

Then come, thou fairest of the fair, 
Those wonted smiles, O, let me share ; 
And by thy beauteous self I swear, 

No love but thine my heart shall know. 
Fairest maid, kc. 



THE BIRKS OF ABERFELDY. 

Bonnie lassie, will ye go, will ye go, will ye go, 
Bonnie lassie, willye go to the birks ofAberfeldy ? 

Now simmer blinks on flowery braes, 
And o'er the crystal streamlet plays, 
Come let us spend the lightsome days, 
In the Birks of Aberfeldy. 

Bonnie lassie, Sec. 

While o'er their heads the hazels hing, 
The little birdies blythly sing, 
Or lightly flit on wanton wing 
In the Birks of Aberfeldy. 

Bonnie lassie. Sec, 

The braes ascend like lofty wa's, 
The foaming stream deep-roaring fa's, 
O'er-hiing wi' fragrant spreading shaws. 
The Birks ofAberfeldy. 

Bonnie lassie. Sec. 

The hoary cliffs are crown'd wi' flowers. 
White o'er the linns the biirnie pours. 
And rising, weets wi' misty showers 
ThoBirks, of Aberfeldy. 

Bonnie lassie. Sec. 



Let fortune's gifts at random flee, 
They ne'er shall draw a wish frae me, 
Supremely blest wi' love and thee, 
In the Birks ofAberfeldy. 
Bonnie lassie. Sec. 



STAY, MY CHARMER, CAN YOU 
LEAVE ME .' 

Tune — " An Gille dubh ciar-dhubh." 

Stay, my charmer, can you leave me .' 

Cruel, cruel to deceive me ! 

Well you know how much you grieve me ; 

Cruel charmer, can you go ? 

Cruel charmer, can you goi" 

By my love so ill requited ; 

By the faith you fondly plighted ; 

By the pangs of lovers slighted ; 

Do not, do not leave me so ! 

Do not, do not leave me so 1 



STRATHALLAN'S LAMENT. 

Thickest night o'erhang my dwellmg , 
Howling tempests o'er me ravel 

Turbid torrents, wintry swelling. 
Still surround my lonely cave ! 

Crystal streamlets, gently flowing 
Busy haunts of base mankind. 

Western breezes, softly blowing. 
Suit not my distracted mind. 

In the cause of right engaged. 
Wrongs injurious to redress, 

Honour's war we strongly waged. 
But the heavens deny'd success. 

Ruin's wheel has driven o'er us, 
Not a hope that dare attend, 

The wide world is all before us — 
But a world without a friend I 



THE YOUNG HIGHLAND ROVER. 
Tune—" Morag." 

LotJD blaw the frosty breezes, 
The snaws the mountains cover ; 

Like winter on me seizes. 

Since my young Highland Rover 
Far wanders nations over. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



i07 



VVliere'er lie ^o, where'er he stray, 
May Heaven bo liis warden : 

Return liiin yafe to fair Strathspey, 
And bonnie Castle-Gordon I 

Tlic trees now naked groaning. 
Shall soon wi' leaves be hinging, 

The birdies dowie moaning, 
Sliall a' be blithly singing, 
And every tiowcr be springing. 

Sao I'll rejoice tJie lee-lang day, 
Wiien by his mighty warden 

My youth's return 'd to fair Strathspey, 
And boniiie Castle- Gordon. 



RAVING WINDS AROUND HER 
BLOWING. 

Tune — " M'Grigor of Ruaro's Lament." 



Raving winds around her blowing. 
Yellow leaves the woodlands strewing, 
By a river lioarsely roaring, 
Isabella stray 'd deploring. 
" Farewell, hours that late did measure 
Sunshine days of joy and pleasure ; 
Hail, thou gloomy night of sorrow. 
Cheerless night that knows no morrow, 

* O'er the past too fondly wandering, 
On the hopeless future pondering; 
Chilly grief my life-blood freezes, 
Fell dDspair my fancy seizes, 
Life, thou soul of every blessing. 
Load to misery most distressing, 
O iiow gladly I'd resign thee, 
And to dark oblivion join thee !" 



MUSING ON THE ROARING OCEAN. 

Tune — " Druimion dubh." 

Musing on the roaring ocean. 
Which divides my love and me ; 

Wearying Heaven in warm aevotion. 
For his weal where'er he be. 

Hope and fear's alternate billow 
Yielding late to nature's law ; 

Whisp'ring spirits round my pillow 
Talk of him that's far awa. 

Y^e whom sorrow never wounded, 

Ye who never shed a tear, 
Care-untroubled, joy-surrounded, 

Gttudy day to you is dear. 



Gentle night, do thou befriend me ; 

Downy sleep, the curtain draw ; 
Spirits kind, again attend me. 

Talk of liim that's far awa ! 



BLITHE WAS SHE. 



Blithe, blithe and merry was she, 
Blithe ivas she but and ben : 

Blithe by the banks of Em, 
And blithe in Glenturit glen. 



By Oughtertyre grows the aik. 

On Yarrow banks, the birken shaw , 

But Phemie was a bonnier lass 
Than braes o' Yarrow ever saw. 
Blithe, &€. 



Her looks were like a flower in May, 
Her smile was like a simmer morn . 

She tripped by the banks of Ern, 
As liglit's a bird upon a thorn. 
Blithe, Sec. 



Her bonnie face it was as meek 

As ony lamb upon a lee ; 
The evening sun was ne'er sae sweet 

As was the bhnk o' Phemie's e'e. 
Blithe, &c. 



Tlio Highland hills I've wander'd wido 
And o'er the Lowlands I hae been ; 

But Phemie was the blithest lass 
That ever trod the dewy green. 
Blithe, &c. 



A ROSE-BUD BY MY EARLY WALK 



A ROSE-BUD by my early walk, 
Adown a corn-enclosed bawk, 
Sae gently bent its thorny stalk 
All on a dewy morning. 

Ere twice the shades o' dawn are fled, 
In a' its crimson glory spread. 
And drooping rich the dewy head. 
It scents the early morning. 

Within the bush, her covert nest 
A little linnet fondly prest. 
The dew sat chilly on her breast 
Sae early in the morning. 



108 



BURNS' POEMS. 



She soon shall see her tender brood, 
The pride, the pleasure o' the wood, 
Amang the fresh green leaves bedew'd, 
Awake the early morning. 

Bo thou, dear bird, young Jeany fair, 
On trembling string or vocal air, 
Shall sweetly pay the tender care 
Tliat tents thy early morning. 

So thou, sweet rose-bud, young and gay, 
Shalt beauteous blaze upon the day, 
And bless the parent's evening ray 
TJiat watcird thy early morning. 



WHERE BRAVING ANGRY WINTER'S 
STORMS. 

Tune — ^"N. Gow's Lamentation for 
Abercairny," 

Where braving angry winter's storms. 

The lofty Ochils rise. 
Far in their shade my Peggy's charms 

First blest my wondering eyes. 
As one by whom some savage stream, 

A lonely gem surveys, 
Astonish'd, doubly marks its beam, 

With art's most pohsh'd blaze. 

Blest be the wild, sequester'd shade, 

And blest the day and hour, 
Where Peggy's cliarms I first survey 'd, 

When first I felt their pow'r ! 
The tyrant death with grim control 

May seize my fleeting breath ; 
But tearing Peggy from my soul 

Must be a stronger death. 



TIBBIE, I HAE SEEN THE DAY. 
Tune — " Invercald's Reel." 



O Tibbie, I hae seen the day, 
Ye would nae been sae shy ; 

For laik o' gear ye lightly me. 
But, trowth, I care na by. 

Yestreen I met you on the moor, 
Ye spak na, but gaed by like stoure : 
Ye geek at mo because I'm poor. 
But feint a hair care I. 
O Tibbie, I hae. Sec. 

I doubt na, lass, but ye may think, 
Because ye hae the name o' clink, 



That ye can please me at a wink, 
Whene'er ye like to try. 
O Tibbie, I hae. Sec. 



But sorrow tak him that's sae mean, 
Altho' his pouch o' coin were clean, 
Wiia follows ony saucy quean 
That looks sae proud and liigh. 
O Tibbie, Ihae, kc. 



Altho' a lad were e'er sae smart 
If that he want the yellow dh-t, 
Ye'U cast your head anitlier airt. 
And answ^er him fu' dry. 
O Tibbie, I hae. Sec. 

But if he hae the name o' gear, 
Ye'll fasten to him like a brier, 
Tho' hardly he for sense or lear, 
Be better than tlie kye. 
O Tibbie, I hae. Sec. 



But, Tibbie, lass, tak my advice. 
Your daddie's gear maks you sae nico 
The deil a ane wad spier your price 
Were ye as poor as I. 
O Tibbie, I hae. Sec. 



There lives a lass in yonder park, 
1 would na gie her in her sark. 
For thee wi' a' thy thousand mark : 
Ye need na look sae high. 
O Tibbie, I hae. Sec. 



CLARINDA. 



Clarinha, mistress of my soul. 
The measur'd time is run ! 

The wretch beneath the dreary pole. 
So marks his latest sun. 

To what dark cave of frozen night 
Shall poor Sylvander hie ; 

Depriv'd of thee, his life and light, 
The sun of all his joy. 

We part — but by these precious drops 

That fill thy lovely eyes! 
No other light shall guide my steps 
Till thy bright beams arise. 

She, the fair sun of all her sex. 
Has blest my glorious day : 

And shall a glimmering planet fix 
My worship to its ray ? 



THE DAY RETURNS, MY BOSOM 
BURNS. 

Tune — " Seventh of November." 

The day returns, my bosom burns, 

The bhssful day we twa did meet, 
Tho' winter wild in tempest toil'd. 

Ne'er summer-sun was lialfsae sweet. 
Tliaa a' the pride that loads tlie tide, 

And crosses o"cr the sultry line; 
Thau kingly robes, than crowns and globes, 

Hcavengave me more — it made thee mine. 

While day and night can bring delight, 

Or nature aught of pleasure give ; 
While joys above, my mind can move, 

For thee, and thee alone, I live ! 
When that grim foe of life below 

Comes in between to make us part ; 
The iron hand that breaks our band. 

It breaks ray bliss, — it breaks my heart. 



THE LAZY MIST. 

The lazy mist hangs from the brow of the hill, 

Concealincr the course of the dark winding rill ; 

How languid the scenes, late so sprightly, ap- 
pear 

As autumn to winter resigns the pale year ! 

The forests are leafless, the meadows are 
brown. 

And all the gay foppery of summer is flown; 

Apart let me wander, apart let me muse, 

How quick time is flying, how keen fate pur- 
sues; 

How long I have liv'd — but how much liv'd 
in vain : 

How little of life's scanty span may remain : 

What aspects, old Time, in his progicss, has 
worn ; 

What ties, cruel fate in my bosom has torn. 

How foohsh, or worse, till our summit is 
gain'd ! 

And downward, how weakened, how darken'd, 
hov/ pain'd ! 

This life's not worth having with all it can 
give, 

For something beyond it poor man sure must 
live. 



O.WERE I ON PARNASSUS' HILL! 
Tune — "My love is lost to me." 



O, WERK I on Parnassus' hill I 
Or Jiad of Helicon my fill ; 



POEMS iP 

That I might catch poetic skill, 
To sino how dear 1 love thee. 

But Nith maun be my muse's well, 

My muse maun be thy bonnie sel ; 

On Corsiiicon I'll glowr and sj)cll. 
And write how dear I love thee. 



Then come, sweet muse, inspire my lay ! 
For a' the Ice-lang simmer's day, 
I coudna sing, I coudna say. 

How much, how dear J love thee. 
I see thee dancing o'er the green, 
Thy waist sae jimp, thy limbs sae clean, 
Thy tempting lips, thy roguish een — 

By heaven and earth I love thee 1 

By night, by day, a-field, at hame, 
The thoughts o' thee my breast inflame ; 
And iy I muse and sing thy name, 

I only live to love thcc. 
Tho' I were doom'd to wander on, 
Beyond the sea, beyond the sun. 
Till my last weary sand was run ; 

Till then — and then I love thee. 



I LOVE MY JEAN. 



Tune— "Miss Admiral Gordon's Strathspey* 

Of a' the airts the wind can blaw, 

I dearly like the west. 
For there the bonnie lassie lives^ 

The lassie I lo'e best : 
There wild woods grow, and rivers row, 

And mony a hill between ; 
But day and niglit my fancy's flight 

Is ever wi' my Jean. 

I see her in the dewy flowers, 

I see her sweet and fair : 
I hear her in the tunefu' birds, 

I hear her charm the air : 
There's not a bonnie flower that springs, 

By fountain, shaw, or green. 
There's not a bonnie bird that sings, 

But minds me o' my Jean. 



THE BRAES O' BALLOCHMYLE. 

The Catrine woods were yellow seen. 
The flowers decay 'd on Catrine lee, 

Nae lav'rock sane on hillock green, 
But nature sicken'd on the e'e. 



no 



BURNS' POEMS 



Tlin/ f;itlcd grove Maria sang, 
llcrsc'l ill beauty's bloom the while, 

AikI ay tlio wild-wood echoes rang, 
Farcwcul tlic braes o' Balloclimyle. 

Low in your wintry beds, ye flowers, 

Again ye'll flourisli fresh and fair ; 
Ye birdies dumb, in wilh'ring bowers, 

Again ye'll charm the vocal air. 
Bui liere, alas I for me nae mair 

Sliall birdie charm, or floweret smile; 
Farewcel the bonnie banks of Ayr, 

Farewcel, fareweel I sweet Ballochmyle, 



WILLIE BREW'D A PECK O' MAUT. 



O, WILLIE brew'd a peck o' maut, 
And Rob and Allan came to see; 

Three blither hearts, that lee-lang night. 
Ye wad na find in Christendie. 

We are nafou, xc^re na thatfou, 
But just a drappie in our e'e; 

The cock may craw, the day may daw 
And ay we'll taste the barley bree. 

Here are we met, three merry boys, 
Three merry boys I trow are we ; 

And mony a night we've merry been, 
And mony mae we hope to be ! 
We are nafou, &c. 

It is the moon, I ken her horn, 
That's blinkin in the lift sae hie ; 

She shines sae bright to wyle us hame, 
But, by my sooth, she'll wait a wee ! 
We are naefou, kc. 

Wha first shall rise to gang awa, 
A cuckold, coward loon is he ! 

Wha last beside his chair shall fa'. 
He is the king amang us three S 
We are nafou-, kc. 



THE BLUE-EYED LASSIE. 

I GAED a waefu' gate, yestreen, 

A gate, I fear, I'll dearly rue ; 
I ffat my death frae twa sweet een, 

Twa lovely een o' bonnie blue. 
'Twas not her golden ringlets bright ; 

Her lips like roses wat wi' dew. 
Her heaving bosom, lily-while; — 

It was her een sae bonnie blue. 



She talk'd, she smirj, my heart she wyl'a. 

She charm'd my soul I wist na jiow ; 
And ay tiie stound, the deadly wound. 

Cam frae her een sae bonnie blue. 
But spare to speak, and spare to speed ; 

She'll aiblins listen to my vow : 
Should she refuse, I'll lay my dead 

To her twa een sae bonnie blue. 



THE BANKS OF NITH. 
Tune—" Robie Dona Gorach." 

The Thames flows proudly to the sea, 

Where royal cities stately stand ; 
But sweeter flows the Nith to me, 

Where Commins ancc had high command. 
When shall I see that honour'd land, 

That winding stream I love so dear ! 
Must wayward fortune's adverse hand 

For ever, ever keep me here .'' 

How lovely, Nith, thy fruitful vales. 

Where spreading hawthorns gay ly bloom ; 
How sweetly wind thy sloping dales, 

Where lambkins wanton thro' the broom I 
Tho' wandering, now, must be my doom. 

Far from thy bonnie banks and braes. 
May there my latest hours consume, 

Amang the friends of early days 1 



JOHN ANDERSON MY JO. 

John Anderson my jo, John, 

When we were first acquent; 
Your locks were like the raven. 

Your bonnie brow was brent ; 
But now your brow is beld, John, 

Your locks are like the snaw ; 
But blessings on your frosty pow, 

John Anderson my jo. 

John Anderson my jo, John, 

We clamb the hill thegither ; 
And mony a canty day, John, 

We've had wi' sne anither : 
Now we maun totter down, John 

But hand and hand we'll go,. 
And sleep thegither at the foot, 

John Anderson my jo. 



TAM GLEN. 

My heart is a-breaking, dear Tittle, 
Some counsel unto me come len'. 

To anger them a' is a pity ; 

But what will I do wi' Tarn Glen' 



BURNS' POEMS. 



11« 



I'm lliinkin, wi' sic a braw fellow, 
In |)oortilh 1 might mak a fun' ; 

Wlial care I in riches to wallow, 
W 1 mauiuia niaxry Tarn Glen ? 



There's Lowrie the laird o' Drummeilcr, 
" Guid day to you, brute," he comes ben : 

He bra<)s and he blaws o' his siller, 

But when will he dance like Tam Glen? 



My minnic does constantly deave me, 
And bids me. beware o' young men ; 

They flatter, she says, to deceive me ; 
But wha can tliink sae o' Tam Glen? 



My daddie says, gin I'll forsake him. 
He'll gie me guid hunder marks ten ; 

But, if it's ordain'd I maun tak liim. 
O wha will I get but Tam Glen ? 



Yestreen at the Valentine's dealing, 
My heart to my mou gied a sten ; 

For thrice I drew ane without failing, 
And thrice it was written, Tam Glen ! 



The last Halloween I was waukin 
My droukit sark-sleeve, as y3 ken 

His likeness cam up the house staukin. 
And the very gray breeks o' Tain Glen ! 



Come counsel, dear Tittle, don't tarry ; 

ril gie you my bonnie black hen, 
Gif ye will advise me to marry 

The lad I lo'e dearly, Tam Glen. 



MY TOCHER'S THE JEWEL. 



O MF.iKLE thinks my luve o' my beauty. 

And meikle thinks my luve o' my kin ; 
But little thinks my luve I ken brawlie. 

My Tocher's the jewel has charms for him. 
It's a' for the apple he'll nourish tlie tree ; 

It's a' for the hiney he'll cherish the bee ; 
My laddie's sae meikle in luve wi' the siller, 

He canna hae luve to spare for me. 



Your proffer o' luve's an airl-penny. 

My Tocher's the bargain ye wad buy ; 
But an ye be crafty, I am cunnin, 

S^e ve wi' anither your fortune may try. 
Ye're like to the trimmer o' yon rotten wood, 

Ye're like to the bark o' yon rotten tree, 
Ye'll slip frae me like a knotless thread. 

And ye'll crack your credit wi' mae nor me. 



THEN GUIDWIFE COUNT THE 
LA WIN, 

Gane is the day, and mirk's the night, 
Put we'll ne'er stray for fautc o' light, 
For ale and brandy's stars and moon, 
And bluid-red wine's the rysin sun. 

Then guidwife count the lavnn, the laicin, the 

law in. 
Then guidwife count the lauin, and bring a 

coggie mair. 

There's wealth and ease for gentlemen, 
And semple-folk maun fecht and fen' ; 
But here we're a' in ae accord, 
For ilka man that's drunk's a lord. 

Tlicn gudewife count. Sec. 

My coggie is a haly pool, 

That heals the wounds o' care and dool ; 

And pleasure is a wanton trout. 

An' ye drink it a' ye'll hnd hiin out. 

The?i guidwife count. Sec. 



WHAT CAN A YOUNG LASSIE DO 
Wr AN AULD MAN.' 



What can a young lassie, what shall a young 
lassie. 
What can a young lassie do wi' an auld 
man? 
Bad luck on the pennie that tempted my 
minme 
To sell her poor Jenny for siller an' Ian' ! 
Bad luck on the pennie, &:c. 

He's always compleenin frae momin to e'enin, 
He hosts and he hirples the weary day lang ; 

He's doylt and he's dozen, his bluid it is fro- 
frozen, 
O, deary's the night wi' a crazy auld man ! 

He hums and he hankers, he frets and he can- 
kers, 
I never can please him, do a' that I can ; 
He's peevish and jealous of a' the young fel- 
lows : 
O, dool on the day I met wi' an auld man I 

My auld auntie itade upon me taks pity, 

I'll do my endeavour to follow her plan ; 
I'll cross him, and wrack him, until I heart- 
break him, 
And then his auld brass will buy me a new 
pan. 



112 



BURNS' POEMS. 



THE BONNIE WEE THING. 



Bonnie wco thing, cannie wee thing:, 
Lovely wee thing, wast thou niijie, 
wad wear thee in my bosom, 
Lost my jewel I should tine. 

Wishfully I look and languish 
In tliat bonnie lace o' thine ; 

And my heart it stounds wi' anguish, 
Lest my wee tiling- be na mine. 

Wit, and grace, and love, and beauty, 

In ae constellation shine ; 
Tj adore thee is my duty. 

Goddess o' this soul o' mine ! 
Bonnie wee, &:c. 



O, FOR ANE AaD TWENTY, TAM ! 
Tune—" The Moudiewort." 

.4n O,for ane and twenty. Tarn ! 

An hey, street ane and tivenly. Tarn I 
ni learn my kin a ratllin sang. 

An I saw ane and twenty. Tarn. 

They snool mo sair, and baud me down, 
And gar me look like bluntie, Tam ! 

But three short years will soon wheel roun', 
And then comss ane and twenty, Tam ! 
An O,for ane, Sec. 

A gleib o' Ian', a claut o' gear. 
Was left me by my auntie, Tara ; 

At kith or kin I needna spier. 
An I saw ane and twenty, Tam ! 
An O,for ane. Sec. 

They'll hae me wed a wealthy coof, 
Tho' I mysel' hae plenty, Tam ; 

But hear'st thou, laddie, there's my loof, 
I'm tlmie at ane and twenty, Tam 1 
An 0, for ane. Sec. 



BESS AND HER SPINNING WHEEL. 

O LEEZE me on my spinning wheel, 
O leeze me on my rock and reel ; 
Frae tup to tae that deeds me bicn, 
And haps me fiel and warm at e'en ' 
I'll set nil! down and sing and spin, 
While laigh descends thesiiniiier sun. 
Blest wi' content, and milk and meal— 
O leexe ine on my spinning' wheel. 



On ilka hand the burnios trot. 
And meet below my thcekit cot ; 
The scented birk and hawthorn whit© 
Across the pool their arms unite. 
Alike to screen the birdie's nest, 
And little fishes' caller rest : 
The sun blinks kindly in the biel', 
Where blithe I turn my spinning vvheeL 



On lofly aiks tho cushats wail, 
And echo cons tliee doolfu' tale ; 
The lintwhites in the hazel braes, 
Delighted, rival ither's lays : 
The craik amang the claver hay, 
The paitrick whirrin o'er the ley. 
The swallow jinkin round my shiel. 
Amuse me at my spinning wheel. 



Wi' sma' to sell, and less to buy, 
Aboon distress, below envy, 
O wha wad leave this humble state, 
For a' the pride of a' the great ? 
Amid tlieir flaring, idle toys. 
Amid their cumbrous, dinsome joys. 
Can they the peace and pleasure feel 
Of Bessy at her spirming wheel ? 



COUNTRY LASSIE. 



In simmer when the hay was mawn. 

And corn wav'd green hi ilka field. 
While claver blooms white o'er the lea, 

And roses blaw in ilka bield ; 
Blithe Bessie in the milking shiel. 

Says, I'll be wed, come o't what will ; 
Out s])ak a dame in wrinkled eild, 

" O' guid advisement conies nae ill. 



" It's yo hae wooers mony ane, 

And lassie, yo're but young ye ken ; 
Then wait a wee, and cannie wale, 

A routine but, a routhie ben : 
There's Johnie o' the Buskie-glen, 

P'u' is his barn, fu' is his byre ; 
Tak this frae me, my bonnie hen. 

It's plenty beets Uie luver's fire." 



For Johnie o' the Buskie-glen, 

I dinna care a single flie ; 
He lo'es sae well !iis craps and kye. 

Ho has nae hue to spare for mo . 
But blithe's the blink o' Robic's e'e. 

And wcel 1 wat he lo'es me dear : 
Ae blink o' him I wad na gie 

For Buskie-o'len and a' his gear 



BURNS' POEMS. 



113 



" O Ihourrhtless lassie, life's n faufrht ; 

Tlic canniest, gate, the strife is sair ; 
But ay fu' han't is feclitin best, 

A huniTy care's an unco care : 
But soins will spend, and some will spare, 

An' vvilfu' folk inauji hae their will ; 
Syne as ye brow, my maiden fair, 
"Keep mind that ye maun druok tlie yill.' 

O, jroar will buy me rigs o' land. 

And irear will buy me sheep and kye ; 
But the tender iieart o' leesomc luve, 

Tlie gowd and siller canna buy : 
We may be poor — Robie and I, 

Liijht is the burden luve lays on; 
Content and luve brings peace and joy, 

Wliat mair hae queens upon a throne ' 



FAIR ELIZA. 



> GAELIC AIR. 



Turn again thou fair Eliza, 

Ae kind ) dnk before we part, 
Rew on thy despairing lover 1 

Canst thou break his faithfu' heart? 
Turn again, tliou fair Eliza ; 

If to love thy heart denies, 
For pity hide the cruel sentence 

Under friendship's kind disguise 

Thee, dear maid, hae I offended? 

The offence is loving thee : 
Canst thou wreck his peace for ever, 

Wha for thine wad gladly die ? 
While the life beats in my bosom, 

Thou shalt mix in ilka throe : 
Turn again, thou lovely maiden, 

Ae sweet smile on me bestow. 



Not the bee upon the blossom, 

In the pride o' sinny noon; 
Not the little sporting fairy. 

All beneatji tlie simmer moon ; 
Not the poet in the moment 

Fancy lightens on his e'e. 
Kens the pleasure, feels the rapture, 

That thy presence gies to me. 



THE POSIE. 



But I will dowTi yon river rove, amang the 

wood sae green, 
And a' to pu' a posic to my ain dear May. 

The primrose I will pu', the firstling o' the 

year. 
And I will pu' the pink, the emblem o' my 

dear. 
For she's the pink o' womankind, and blooms 

without a peer ; 
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 

ril pu' the budding rose when Phoebus peeps 
in view. 

For it's like a baumy kiss o' her sweet bonnie 
mou ; 

The hyacinth 's for constancy wi' its unchang- 
ing blue, 
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 

The lily it is pure, and the lily it is fair. 

And in her lovely bosom I'll place the lily 

there ; 
The daisy 's for simplicity and unaffected air 
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear Ma}'. 

The hawthorn I will pu', wi' its locks o' siller 

gray. 
Where, like an aged man, it stands at break o' 

day. 
But the songster's nest within the bush I win- 

na tak away ; 
And a' to be a posie to my aui dear May. 

The woodbine 1 will pu' when the e'ening star 

is near. 
And the diamond-draps o' dew shall be her 

een sae clear : 
The violet 's for modesty which weel she fa's 

to wear, 
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 

I'll tie the posie round wi' the silken band of 

luve, 
And I'll place it in her breast, and I'll swear by 

a' above. 
That to my latest draught o'life the band shall 

ne'er remuve. 
And this will be a posie to my ain dear May. 



THE BANKS O' DOON. 

Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, 
How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair ; 

How can ye chant, ye little birds. 
And 1 sae weary, fu' o' care 1 

Thou'lt break my iieart, thou warbling bird, 
That wantons thro' the flowering thorn : 



O i.iJVE will venture in, where it daur na weel 

be seen, 
O luve will venture in, wiiere wisdom ance | Thou minds me o' departed joys, 

lias been ; Departed never to return. 

T ' 



14 



BURNS' POEMS. 



Oft hae I rov'd by bonnie Doon, 

To see the rose and woodbine twine ; 
And ilka bird sang' o' its kivc, 

And ibndly suo did 1 o' mine. 
Wi' lii^btsomo huart 1 pu'd a rose, 

Fu' sweet upon its tborny tree : 
But my iause luver stole my rose, 

But ah I he loft tlie thorn vvi' me. 



SONG. 
Tune — " Catharine Ogie." 

Ye flowery banks o' bonnie Doon, 

How can ye blumc sac liiir, 
How can ye chant, ye httle birds, 

And I sae f u' o care 1 

Thon'll break my heart, tJiou bonnie bird 

That eiiigs upon the bough ; 
Thou minds me o' the happy days 

When my fause luve was true. 

Thou'Il break my lieart, thou bonnie bird 

That sings ocsido thy mate; 
For sae I sat, and sae 1 sang. 

And wist ua o' my late. 

Aft liac I rov'd by bonnie Doon, 

To see the wood-hine twine, 
And ilka bird sang o' its love. 

And sae did 1 o' mine. 

Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, 

Frae all" its thorny tree, 
And my fauso luvor staw the rose, 

But left the thorn wi' me. 



SIC A WIFE AS WILLIE HAD. 



Willie Wastlc dwalt on Tweed, 
The spot they ca'd it Linkumdoddie, 

Willie was a wabster guid, 

Cou'd stown a clue wi' ony bodie ; 

He had a wile was dour and din, 
O Tinkler Madgie was her mitlier; 

Sic a wife as Willie had, 

I wad na gie a ballon for her. 

She has an e'c, she has but ane, 
The cat has twa the very colour; 

Five rusty teeth, Ibrbye a stump, 

\ clapper tongue wad dcavo a miller ; 

A whisken board about her mou, 

ller nose and chin tliey threaten itiier; 
Hie a wi ft, kc. 



She's bow-hough*d, she's hcin-shinn'd, 
Ae linipin leg a hand-breed shorter ; 

She 's twisted right, she 's twisted left, 
To balance fan- in ilka quarter: 

She has a hum]) upon her breast. 
The twin o' that upon her shouthor; 
Sic a wife, Sec. 

Auld baudrans by the ingle sits. 
An' wi' her loo'' "acr face a-washin ; 

But Willie's wife is nae sae trig, 

She (lights her f~unzie wi' a hushion ; 

Ilcr walie nieves like midden-crccls. 
Her face wad fyle the Logan- W'ater : 

Sir a ii-ifc. as Willie had, 
I wad na gie a butlonfor her. 



GLOOMY DECEMBER. 



Ance mair I hail theo, thou gloomy Decembe? ! 

Ance mair I hail thee wi' sorrow and care; 
Sad was the parting thou makes mc remember, 

Parting wi' Nancy, Oh I ne'er to meet mair. 
Fond lovers' parting is sweet painful pleasure, 

Hope beaming mild on the soft parting hour ; 
But tlie dire feeling, O farewell for ever. 

Is anguish unmmgled and agony pure. 

Wild as the winter now tearing tlie forest. 
Till the last leaf o' the summer is flown, 

Such is the tempest has shaken my bosom. 
Since niy last hope and last comfort is gone ; 

Still as I hail thee, thou gloomy December, 
Still shall 1 hail thee wi' sorrow ana care; 

For sad was the parting thou makes me re- 
member, 

Parting wi' Nancy, Oh, ne'er to meet ma-lr. 



WILT THOU BE MY DEARIE? 

Wilt thou bo my dearie ? 

When sorrow wrings thy gentle hear 
O wilt thou let me cheer thee ? 

By the treasure of my soul, 
And that 's the love I bear thee ! 

I swear and vow, that only thou 
Shall ever be my dearie. 

Only thou, I swear and vow, 

Shall ever be my dearie. 

Lassie, say thou lo'es me ; 

Or if tiiou wilt na be my ain, 
Say na thou'lt refuse me : 

If it wiiuia, canna be, 



BURNS' POEMS. 



115 



Thou for thine may choose me ; 
Let mc, lassie, quickly die, 

Trusting tliat tiioii .o'cs me. 
Lassie, let mo quickly die, 
Trusting tliat tJiou lo'es me. 



SHE'S FAIR AND FAUSE. 



SriF.'s fair and fausc that causes my smart, 

1 lo'cd her meikle and lang- ; 
She's broken her vow, she's broken my heart, 

And I may e'en gae hang. 
A coof cam in wi' rowth o' gear, 
And 1 hae tint my dearest dear, 
But woman is but warld's gear, 

Sae let the bonnie lass gang. 

Whae'er ye be that woman love, 

To this be never blind, 
Nae fcrlic 'tis tho' fickle she prove, 

A woman has't by kind : 
O woman lovely, woman fair ! 
An angel's form 's faun to thy share, 
Twad been o'er meikle to gien thee mair, 

I mean an angel mind. 



AFTON WATER. 

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green 

braes, 
Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise ; 
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream. 
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not lier 

dream. 

Thou stock-dove whose echo resounds thro' 

the glen, 
Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny 

den. 
Thou green-crested lap-wing, thy screaming 

forbear, 
I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair. 

How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring 

hills. 
Far mark'd wi' the courses of clear, winding 

rills ; 
There daily I v/ander as noon rises high, 
.■•ly flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye. 

How pleasant thy banks and green valleys 

below. 
Where wild in the woodlands the primroses 

blow ; 
There, oft, as mild evening weeps over the lea, 
Tho sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and 

me. 



Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lofty it g.ioes. 
And wmds by the cot where my Mary resides ; 
How wanton thy waters her snowy leet lave, 
As gathering sweet flowerets she stems thy 
clear wave. 

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green 

braes. 
Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays ; 
My Mary 's asleep by thy murmuring stream. 
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her 

dream. 



BONNIE BELL. 

The smiling spring comes in rejoicing. 

And surly winter grimly flies : 
Now crystal clear are the falhng waters. 

And bonnie blue are the sunny skies ; 
Fresh o'er the mountains breaks forth the 
morning. 

The ev'ning gilds the ocean's swell ; 
All creatures joy in the sun's returning 

And I rejoice in my bonnie Bell. 

Tho flowery spring leads sunny summer, 

And yellow autumn presses near. 
Then in his turn comes gloomy winter. 

Till smihng spring again appear. 
Thus seasons dancing, hfe advancing. 

Old Time and nature their changes tell. 
But never ranging, still unchanging 

I adore my bonnie Bell. 



THE GALLANT WEAVER 

WiiKRE Cart rins rowin to the sea, 
By mony a flow'r, and s))reading tree, 
There lives a lad, the lad for me. 
He is a gallant weaver. 

Oh I had wooers aught or nine, 
Tiicy gicd me rings and ribbons fine ; 
And 1 was fcar'd my heart would tine. 
And 1 gied it to the weaver. 

My daddie sign'd my tocher-band 
To gie the lad that has the land ; 
But to n.y heart I'll add my hand. 
And gie it to the weaver. 

While birds rejoice in leafy bowers ; 
While bees rejoice in ()[)oning flowers ; 
While corn grows green in sinuner elKiWers 
I'll love my gallant weaver. 



116 



BURNS' POEMS. 



LOUIS WHAT RECK I BY THEE ? 

Louis, what reck I by thee, 

Or Geordie on his ocean ? 
Dyvor, beggar louns to me, 

1 reign in Jeanie's bosom. 



Let her crown my love her law, 
And in her breast enthrone me : 

Kings and nations, swith awa ! 
Ileif randies, 1 disown ye I 



FOR THE SAKE OF SOMEBODY. 



]My heart is sair, I dare na tell. 

My heart is sair for somebody ; 
I could wake a winter night 
For the sake o' somebody. 
Oh-lion 1 for somebody ! 
Oli-hey ! for somebody ! 
I could range the world around, 
For the sake o' somebody. 



Ye powers that smile on virtuous love, 

O, sweetly smile on somebody ! 
Frao ilka danger keep him free. 
And send me safe my somebody. 
Oli-hon ! for somebody ! 
Oh-hey ! for somebody ! 
I wad do — what wad I not i 
For the sake of somebody ! 



THE LOVELY LASS OF INVERNESS. 



The lovely lass o' Inverness, 

Nae joy nor pleasure can she see ; 
For e'en and morn she cries, alas 1 

And ay the saut tear blins her e'e : 
Drumossie moor, Drumossie day, 

A wacfu' day it was to me ; 
For there I lost my father dear. 

My father dear, and brethren three. 



Their wmrimg sneet the bluidy clay. 

Their graves are growing green to see ; 
And by them lies the dearest lad 

Tliat ever blest a woman's e'e ! 
Now wae to thee, thou cruel lord, 

A bluidy man I trow thou be ; 
For in.ony a heart thou hast made sair, 

Tlwl T'c'cr did wrong to tliine or tfl^e. 



A MOTHER'S LAMENT FOR THE 
DEATH OF HER SON. 

Tune — " Finlayston House." 

Fate gave the word, the arrow sped, 

And pierc'd my darling's heart : 
And with him all the joys are fled 

Life can to me impart. 
By cruel hands the sapling drops, 

In dust dishonour'd laid : 
So fell the pride of all my hopes, 

My age's future shade. 

The mother-linnet in the brake 

Bewails her ravisli'd young ; 
So I, for my lost darHng's sake, 

Lament the live-day long. 
Death, oft I've fear'd thy fatal blow, 

Now fond I bare my breast, 
O, do thou kindly lay me low 

With }iim I love, at rest 1 



O MAY, THY MORN. 



O May, thy mom was ne'er sae sweet 
As the mirk night o' December ; 

For sparkling was the rosy wine, 
And private was the chamber : 

And dear was she I dare na name, 
But I will ay remember. 
And dear., &c. 

And here's to them, that, like oursel, 
Can push about the jorum ; 

And here's to them that wish us weel, 
May a' that's guid watch o'er tlicin ; 

And here's to them, we dare na tell, 
The dearest o' the quorum. 
And here's lo, &:c. 



O, WAT YE WIIA'S IN YON TOWN? 



O, WAT ye wha's in yon town. 

Ye see the e'enin sun upon ? 
The fairest dame 's in yon town, 

That e'enin sun is sliining on. 

Now haply down yon gay green shaw. 
She wanders by yon spreading tree : 

How blest ye tlow'rs that round her blaw, 
Ye catch the glances o' her e'e ! 



BURNS' POEMS. 



117 



How blest ye birds that round her sin^, 
And welcome in the blooming year I 

And doubly welcome be the spring, 
The season to my Lucy dear. 

The sun blinks blithe on yon town, 
And on yon bonnie braes of Ayr ; 

But my delight in yon town, 
And dearest bliss, is Lucy fair. 

Without my love, not a' the ciiarms 
C Paradise could yield me joy ; 

But gie me Lucy in my arms. 
And welcome Lapland's dreary sky. 

My cave wad be a lover's bower, 
Tho' raging winter rent the air; 

And she a lovely little flower. 
That I wad tent and shelter there. 



O, sweet is she in yon town. 

Yon sinkin sun's ganc down upon ! 

A fairer than's in yon town, 

His setting beam ne'er shone upon. 

If angry fate is sAvorn my foe, 

And suffering I am doom'd to bear ; 

I careless quit aught else below, 
But spare me, spare me Lucy dear. 

For while life's dearest blood is warm, 
Ae thought frae her sliall ne'er depart, 

And she — as fairest is her form I 
She has the truest, kindest heart. 



A RED, RED ROSE. 



O, MY luve's like a red, red rose. 
That's newly sprung in June : 

O, my luve's like the melodie 
That's sweetly play'd in tune. 

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, 

So deep in luve am I : 
And I will luve thee still, my dear, 

Till a' the seas gang dry. 

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear. 
And the rocks melt wi' the sun : 

I will luve thee still, my dear, 
While the sands o' life shall run. 

And fare thee weel, my only luve ! 

And fare thee weel a while 1 
And 1 will come again, my luve, 

Tho' it were ten thousand mile. 



A VISION. 



As I stood by yon roofless tower. 

Where the wa'-flower scents the dewy air, 
Where the howlet mourns in her ivy bower 

And tells the midnight moon her care. 

The winds were laid, the air was still, 
The stars they shot alang the sky ; 

The fox was howling on the hill. 
And tlie distant-echoing glens reply 

The stream, adown its hazelly path, 
Was rushing by the ruin'd wa's. 

Hasting to join the sweeping Nith, 
Whase distant roaring swells and fa's. 

The cauld blue north was streaming forth 
Her lights, wi' hissing, eerie din ; 

Athort the lift they start and shift. 
Like fortune's favours, tint as win. 



By heedless chance I turn'd mine eyes. 
And by the moon-beam, shook, to see 

A stern and stalwart ghaist arise, 
Attir'd as minstrels wont to be. 



Had I a statue been o' stane, 
His darin look had daunted me : 

And on his bonnet grav'd was plain, 
The sacred posy — Libertie I 

And frae his harp sic strains did flow. 

Might rous'd tiie slumbering dead to hear ; 

But oh, it was a talf of wo, 
As ever met a Briton's ear ! 

He sang wi' joy his former day. 

He weeping wail'd his latter times; 

But what he said it was nae play, 
I winna ventur't in my rhymes. 



COPY 



OF A POETICAL ADDRESS' 

TO MR. WILLIAM TYTLER, 

With the present of the Bard's Pictiae. 

Revered defender of beauteous Stuart, 
Of Stuart, a name once respected, 

A name, which to love was the mark of a true 
heart, 
Bufnow 'tis despised and neglected. 



lis 



BURNS' POEMS. 



Tho Bomolliing like moisture conglobos in my 
eyo. 
Lot no Olio inisdenin mo dis^loyal ; 
A poor iVioiidloss wand'ror may well claim a 
sfigii, 
Still moro, if that wand'ror were royal. 

My fathers that name have rovor'd on a 
tiiroiio ; 
My fatliora iiuvo fallen to right it; 
Tliodo falhors would spurn tlioir dogenorato 
son, 
That name should ho scoffmgly slight it. 

Plill in i)raycrs for K — G — I moat heartily 
join, 
Tlui Ci — , and tho rest of tho gentry, 
Do tliey wise, ho they foolisJi, is nothing of 
miijo; 
Tiieir title's avow'd hy my country. 

But wiiy of this cpoeha make such a fuss, 

* * !i! * * 



But loyalty trn<x! we're on dimgerous ground, 
^Vll() knows how the fasliious may alter? 

The doctrine, to-day, that is loyalty suund, 
To-morrow may bring us a haltor. 

I send you a triflo, a hoad of a hard, 
A trillo scarce worthy your care ; 

But accept it, good Sir, as a mark of regard, 
Sincere us a saint's dying })rayor. 

Now life's cliilly evening dim shades on your 
eye. 
And usliei's tho long dreary night; 
But you, like tho star that atliwait gilds tlie 
sky, 
Your course to Uie latest is bright. 



CALEDONIA. 

Tune—" Caledonian Hunt's Delight." 

There \vas once a day, but old Time then was 
young, 
Tiiat bravo (.'alcdonia, tho chief of hor lino, 
Trom some ot' your ui>rllicrn deities sprung, 
(Wiio knows not that bravo Caledonia's 
diviuo?) 
From Tweed to Uie Orcadcs was her domain. 
To hunt, or to pasture, or do what she 
would : 
J lor heavenly relations there fixed her reign, 
And pledg'd her thoir godheads to warrant 
it jiood. 



A l;\ndikin in i)eacc, but a lion In war. 

The pride ol'lier kindred the heroine; grew: 
Her grandsire, old Odin, triumphantly sworo, 
" VVhoe'er shall provoke Ihcu, Ih' uncoiuilor 
shall rue !" 
With tillage or pasture at times she would 
si)ort, 
To feed her fair flocks by her green rust- 
ling corn ? 
But chielly tlio woods were her fav'rito resort, 
llcr darling anmsemenl, the hounds and the 
lioru. 



Long quiet she reign'd ; till thitherward steers 

A llight of hold eagles from Adria's strand : 
llei>eate(l, sn(HH>ssive, for many long years. 

They darken'd tlio iiir, and they plunder'd 
the laud : 
Their pounces wore nmrdor, and terror their 
cry. 

They'd conquer'd and rnin'd a world beside ; 
Sho took to her hills, and her arrows let liy, 

Tho daring invaders Uicy lied or they died. 



Tho fell Harpy-raven took wing from the 
north, 
Tho scourge of tlio seas, and tho dread of tJio 
shore; 
Tho wild Siaiulinavian bear issu'd forth 

To wanton in carnage and wallow in gore. 
O'er countries and kingdoms tho fury pre- 
vail'd, 
No arts could appease them, no arms could 
rei)el ; 
Rut brave Caledonia in vain they assail'd. 
As Largs well can witness, and Loncartis 
toll. 



Tho Chameloon-savRgo disturb'd hor repose. 

With tunmit, disquiet, rebellion and strife, 
Provok'd beyond bearings at last she arose. 

And robb'd him at once of his hopes and his 
life: 
The Anglian lion, tho terror of France, 

Oil prowling, onsanguin'd the Tweed's sil- 
ver Hood ; 
But, taught by the bright Caledonian lance, 

lie learned to fear in his own native v/ood. 



Thus bold, independent, unconquer'd, and free. 

Her bright course of glory for ever shall run, 
For bravo Caledonia inunortal inust be ; 

I'll prove it from Kuclid as clear as the sun; 
Rectanglo-trianghs the tigiire we'll choose, 

Tho upright is Chance, and old Time is the 
base ; 
But brave Caledonia's the liypotcnuse ; 

Thou ergo, sho'll nuitch them, and matcL 
them alwaj's. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



lid 



THE follniring Poem 7cas written to a Gentle- 
man, who had sent him a J^ewtjiaper, and 
offered to continue it free of Expense. 

KiMi) Sir, I've read your paper llirough, 

And faitli, to mo, Mwas really new ! 

How yubKsed ye, .Sir, wiiat niaiKt 1 wanted ? 

'I'IiIh niony a day I've grain'd and {riiuntod, 

'J'o ken what I'VeiicJi niiscliicf was hrewin ; 

Or what the drunilio Dutch wore doin ; 

That vilodoujj-skelpor, Kni])oror Joseph, 

If Venus yet )iad ^ot Jiis nose oil'; 

Or how the ei)lli(!shanfii(! works 

Atweoii the Russians and tjie Turks ; 

Or if the Swede, iiefore ho halt. 

Would play anithor (,"harl(!s the twalt : 

If l)(!iunark, any body spak o't; 

Or I'oland, wlia had now the tack o't ; 

How cut-throat I'russian blades wero iiingin, 

How liijbot Italy was sing'in ; 

If Wjianiard, I'ortuiiuesc, or Swiss, 

Were sayin or takin auf^ht amiss : 

Or how our merry lads at hamo. 

In Uritain's court kept up the j^amo : 

How Royal Georjrc. the [ionlTeuk o'er him ! 

Was mana;i;in<r St. Stephen's (pioruin ; 

If sleckit Chatham Will was livin. 

Or t;laikit Charlie got his nieve in ; 

How daddio JUirko the j)lea was cookin, 

If Warren llastiiiirs' neck was yeukin ; 

How cesses, stents, and fees were rax'd. 

Or if bare a — s yet were lax'd ; 

Tile news o' princes, dukes, and carls, 

I'imps, sharpers, hawds, and o[)era-jrirls ; 

If that daft buckie, (Joordie W***s, 

\Vas threshin still at hiz/ies' tails. 

Or if lie was grown onghllins dousor, 

Ainl no a ])erfect kintra cooser, 

A' this and mair I never iieard of; 

And but for you I might despaired of. 

So gratefu', hack your news 1 send you. 

And pray, a' guid things may attend you. 

EUisland, Monday Morning, 1790. 



POEM ON PASTORAL POETRY. 



Hail, Poesic ! thou Nymph rcscrv'd ! 

In chase o' thee, what crowds hae sworv'd 

Frae common sense, or sunk enerv'd 

'Mang heaps o' clavcrs ; 
And cell ! o'er aft thy joes hae stai-v'd. 

Mid a' thy iavours ! 



Say, T^assie, why thy train amang, 
While loud the trump's heroic clanjj. 



And Bock or buskin ukelp alang 

To deatii or marriage ; 
Scarce ano has tried the sh(!|)herd-sang 

liut wi' miscarriage ? 



In ITomcr's craft Jock Milton thrives 
Eschylus' pen Will Shaksijcare drives ; 
Wco Pope, the knurlin, till him rives 

iloratian fame ; 
In thy sweet sang, Barl)atdd, survives 

Even Sappho's flamo. 



Rut thco, Theocritus, wha matches ? 
They're no luird's balhits, Muro's catches: 
Scpnre Pope but busks liis skinklin patches 

O' heathen tatters : 
I pass by hunders, nameless wretches, 

'J 'hat ape their bottera. 



In this braw age o' wit and lea. 

Will nane the Shepherd's whistle mair 

Rlaw sweetly, in its native air 

And rural grace ; 
And wi' the far-fam'd Grecian, share 

A rival place ? 



Yes ! there is ane — a Scottish callan ! 
There's ane ; come forrit, honest Allan ! 
Thou needna jouk beliint the iiallan, 

A chi(!l sac clever ; 
The teeth o' Time may gnaw Tamtallan, 

JJui thou 's for over. 



Thou paints aidd nature to the nines, 

In thy sweet Caledonian lines; 

Nae gowden stream thro' myrtles twines, 

Wliere riiilomol. 
While nightly breezes sweep the vines. 

Her griefs will tell'I 



In gowany glens thy hurnie strays, 
Where bonnie lasses bleacii their clacs ; 
Or trots by hazelly shaws and braes, 

Wi' hawthorns gray, 
Whore blackbirds join the she])lierd's lays 

At close o' day. 



Thy rural loves are nature's sel; 

Nae bombast sj)ates o' nonsense swell ; 

Nae sua]) conceits, but that sweet s|)ell 

O' witchin love, 
Tliat charm that can the strongest quell ; 

The sternest move. 



ISO 



BURNS' POEMS. 



BATTLE OF SHERIFF-MUIR, 
Between the Duko of Argyle and llie Earl of Mar. 



" O CAM ye here the fight to shun, 
Or licrd tlie sheep wi' me, man f 
Or were yc at the sherra-muir, 

And did the battle see, man ?" 
I savv the battle, sair and tough, 
And reekin-rcd ran mony a sheugli, 
My heart, for fear, gae sough for sough, 
To liear the thuds, and see the cluds, 
O' clans frae woods, in tartan duds, 
VVha glauni'd at kingdoms tiirce, man. 



The red-coat lads wi' black cockades 
To meet them were na slaw, man ; 

They rusird and pushVl, and blude outgusli'd, 
And mony a bouk did fa\ man : 

The great Argyle led on his files, 

I wat they glanced twenty miles : 

They hack\l and hash'd, wiiile broad swords 
clasird, 

And thro' they dash'd, and hew'd and smash 'd, 
Till fey-men died awa, man. 



But had you seen the pliilibegs. 

And skyrin tartan trews, man. 
When in tiie teetli tiicy dar'd our whigs, 

And covenant true blues, man ; 
In lines extended laiig and large, 
When bayonets oppos'd the targe. 
And thousands hasteu'd to the charge, 
Wi' Highland wrath, they frae the sheath 
Drew blades o' death, till, out o' breath. 
They fled like frighted does, man. 



" O how deil, Tarn, can that be true ? 

The chase gaed frae the north, man : 
I saw myself, they did pursue 

The horsemen back to Forth, man ; 
And at l^umblane, in my ain sight. 
They took the brig wi' a' their might. 
And straught to Stirling wing'd their flight ; 
But, cursed lot ! the gates were shut, 
And mony a iiuntif, ])oor red-coat. 

For fear aniaist did swarf, man." 



I\Ty sister Kate cam up the gate 

Wi' crowdie unto me, man ; 
Slie swore she saw some rebels run 

Frae Perth unto Dundee, man : 
Their left-hand general liad nae skill, 
Tlio Angus lads liad nae good will 
That day their neebors' blood to spill ; 



For fear, by foes, that they should lose 
Their cogs o' brose ; all crying woe;^, 
And so it goes you see, man. 



They've lost some gallant gentlemen, 

Amang the Highland clans, man ; 
I fear my lord Panmure is slain. 

Or fallen in whiggish hands, man: 
Now wad ye sing this double fight. 
Some fell for wrang, and some for right 
But mony bade the world guid-night ; 
Then ye may tell, how pell and mell, 
By red claymores, and muskets' knell, 
Wi' dying yell, the torics fell, 
And whigs to hell did flee, man. 



SKETCH.— NEW-YEAR'S DAY. 



TO MRS. DUNLOP. 



This day. Time winds th' exhausted chain 
To run the twelvemonth's length agaui : 
1 see the old, bald-jjated fellow, 
With ardent eyes, complexion sallow, 
Adjust the unimpuir'd machine. 
To wheel the equal, dull routine. 



The absent lover, minor heir. 

In vain assail him with their prayer. 

Deaf as my friend, he sees tlicm press, 

Nor makes the hour one moment less. 

AVill you (the Major's with the hounds ■, 

The happy tenants share his rounds ; 

Coila 's fair Rachel's care to-day, 

And blooming Keith's engaged with Gray) 

From iiousewife cares a minute borrow — 

— That grandchild's cap will do to-morrow— » 

And join with me a-moralizing. 

This day's propitious to be wise in. 

First, what did yesterniglit deliver ? 

" Another year is gone tor ever." 

An,d what is this day's strong suggestion ? 

" I'lic passing moment 's all we rest on i" 

Rest on — for what .'' what do we here ? 

Or why regard the passing year .'' 

Will Time, anuis'd with ])roverb'd lore. 

Add to our date one minute more ? 

A few days may — a few years must — 

Repose us in the silent dust. 

Then is it wise to damp our bliss ? 

Yes — all such reasonings are amiss ! 

The voice of nature loudly cries. 

And many a message from the skies, 

That somctliing in us never dies; 

That on this frail, uncertain state, 

Hau,"; matters of eternal weight ; 

That iutnio life in worlds unknown 

Must taJie its hue from this alono ; 



BURNS' POEMS. 



121 



Whctlicr as heavenly f^lory bright, 
Or dark as misery's woful night. — 
Since then, my honoured, first of friends, 
On this poor being all depends; 
Let us th' important now employ. 
And live as those that never die. 
Tho' you, with day and honours crown'd, 
Witness that filial circle round, 
(A sight life's sorrows to repulse, 
A sight pale envy to convulse,) 
Others now claim your chief regard: 
Yourself, you wait your bright reward. 



EXTEMPORE, on the late Mr. William Smel- 
iie. Author of the Philosophy ofJVatural His- 
tori/, and Member of the Jlntiquarian and 
Ruyal Societies of Edinburgh. 

To Crochallan came 
T!ic old cock'd hat, the gray surtout, the same ; 
His bristling heard just rising in its might, 
'Twas four long nights and days to shaving- 
night, 
His uncombed grizzly locks wild staring, 

thatch'd, 
A head for thought profound and clear, un- 

matcird ; 
Yet tho' his caustic wit was biting, rude. 
His heart was warm, benevolent, and good. 



How can yo charm, ye flow'rs with all your 
dyes .'' 
Yo blow upon tho sod that wraps my friend ; 
How can I to the tuneful strain attend .' 
That strain Hows round th' untimely tomb 
where Riddel lies. 

Yes, pour, ye warblers, pour the notes of wo, 
And soothe the Virtues weeping on this bier : 
The Man of Worth, and has not left his peer, 

Is in his " narrow house" for ever darkly low. 

Thee, Spring, again with joy shall others 

greet ; 
Me, mem'ry of ray loss will only meet. 



POETICAL mSCRIPTIOKfor an Altar io\ 
Independence, at Kerroughtrij, the Seat of Mr. , 
Heron ; written in summert 1795. 

Thou of an independent mind. 

With soul resolv'd, with soul resign'd; 

Prepared Power's proudest frown to brave, 

Who wilt not be, nor have a slave ; 

Virtue alone who dost revere. 

Thy own reproach alone dost fear. 

Approach this siirine, and worship here. 



SONNET, 

ON THE 

DEATH OF ROBERT RIDDEL, Esa. 

OF GLEN RIDDEL, APRIL, 1794. 

No more, ye warblers of the wood, no more. 
Nor |)oiir your descant, grating on my soul ; 
Thou young-eyed Spriiii^, gay in thy ver- 
dant stole, 
More welcome were to me grim Winter's 
wildest roar. 

I 2 



MONODY 



LADY FAMED FOR HER CAPRICE. 



How cold is that bosom which folly once fir'd. 
How pale is that cheek where the rouge 
lately glisten'd ! 
How silent that tongue which the echoes oft 
tir'd. 
How dull is that ear whicli to flattery so lis- 
ten'd! 



If sorrow and anguish their exit await, 

From friendship and dearest affection re- 
moved ; 

How doubly severer, Eliza, thy fate. 
Thou diedst unwept as thou livedst unlov'd. 

Loves. Graces, and Virtues, I call not on you ; 

So shy, grave, and distant, ye shed not a 
tear : 
But come, all ye offspring of folly so true. 

And flowers let us cull for Eliza's cold bier. 

We'll search thro' tho garden for each sillj 
flower, 
We'll roam thro' the forest for eaclt idle 
weed ; 
But chiefly the nettle, so typical, shower, 
For none e'er ai)proach'd her but ru'd the 
rash deed. 



We'll sculpture the marble, well measure the 
la-y; 

Here Vanity strums on her idiot lyre ; 
There keen Indignation shall dart on her prey. 
Which spuruiiig Contempt shall redeem from 
his ire. 



122 



BURNS' POEMS. 



THE EPITAPH. 



Here lies, now a prey to insulting neglect, 
What once was a butterlly, gay in life's 
beam : 

Want only of wisdom denied her respect, 
Want only of goodness denied her esteem. 



AJ^SWER to a Mandate sent by the Surveyor 
of the TVindotvs, Carriages,>&:c. to each Far- 
mer, ordering him to send a signed List of his 
Horses, Servajils, TVheel-Carriages, S:c„ and 
whether he was a married Man or a Bachelor, 
and what Children they had. 



Sir, as your mandate did request, 
I send you here a faithfu' list, 
My horses, servants, carts, and graith, 
To which I'm free to tak my aith. 



Imprimis, then, for carriage cattle, 
I hae four brutes o' gallant mettle, 
As ever drew before a pettle. 
My hand afore, a guid anld has-been. 
And wight and wilfu' a' his days seen ; 
My hand a hin, a guid brown filly, 
Wha aft hae borne me safe frae Killie, 
And your old borough mony a time. 
In days when riding was nae crime : 
My fur a hin, a guid gray beast. 
As e'er in tug or tow was trac'd : 
The fourth, a Highland Donald hasty, 
A d-mn'd red-wud, Kilburnie blastie. 
For-by a cowt, of cowts the wale, 
As ever ran before a tail ; 
An' he be spar'd to be a beast. 
He'll draw me fifteen pund at least. 



Wheel carriages I hae but few. 
Three carts, and twa are fcckly new ; 
An auld wheel-barrow, mair for token, 
Aeleg and baith the trams are broken ; 
I made a poker o' the spindle. 
And my auld mither brunt tlie trundle. 
For men, I've three mischievous boys, 
Run-deils for rantin and for noise ; 
A gadsman ane, a thrasher t'other. 
Wee Davoc hands the nowtc hi fotlier. 
I rule them, as I ought, discreetly. 
And often labour them completely. 
And ay on Sundays duly nightly, 
I on the questions tairge them tightly. 
Till faith wee Davoc's grown sae gleg, 
(Tho' scarcely lano'er tlian my leg,) 
He'll screed you ofY eff'eclunl calling. 
As fast as ony in the dwallhig. 



I've nane in female servant station. 
Lord keep me ay frao a' temptation I 
I hae nae wife, and that my bliss is, 
And ye hae laid nae tax on misses ; 
For weans I'm mair than well contented. 
Heaven sent me ane mair than I wanted; 
My sonsie, smirking, dear-bought Bess, 
She stares the daddie in her face. 
Enough of ought ye like but grace. 
But her, my bonnie, sweet, wee lady 
I've said enough for her already, 
And if ye tax her or her mither. 
By the L — d ye'se get them a' thegither ! 

And now, remember, Mr. Aiken, 

Nae kind of license out I'm taking. 

Thro' dirt and dub for life I'll paidle, 

Ere I sae dear pay for a saddle ; 

I've sturdy stumps, the Lord be thanked ! 

And a' my gates on foot I'll shank it. 

This list wi' my ain hand I've wrote it. 
The day and date is under noted ; 
Then know all ye whom it ccacems, 
Subscripsi huic 



Robert Burns. 



Mossgiel, 22i, Feb. 1786. 



SONG. 

Nae gentle dames, tho' e'er sae fair, 
Shall ever be my muse's care ; 
Their titles a' are empty sjiow ; 
Gie me my highland lassie, O. 

TVithin the glen sae bushy, O, 
A00071 the plain sae rushy, O, 
/ set me down wi'' right good will; 
To sing my highlaiid lassie, O. 

Oh, were yon hills and valleys mine, 
Yon palace and yon gardens fine ! 
The world then the love should Imow 
I bear my highland lassie, O. 
JVithin the glen, &c. 

But fickle fortune frovms on me, 
And I maun cross. the raging sea; 
But while my crimson currents flow 
I love my highland lassie, O. 
Within the glen. Sec. 

Altho' thro' foreign climes I rano-e, 
I know hor heart will never cliange. 
For her bosom burns with honour's glow 
My faithful highland lassie, O. 
JVithiti the glen, &:c. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



123 



For her I'll dare the billow's roar, 
For her Fll trace a distant shore, 
That Indian wealth may lustre throw 
Around my highland lassie, O. 
Willdn the glen, Arc. 

She has my heart, she has my hand, 
Bv sacred truth and honour's band 1 
Till the mortal stroke shall lay me low, 
I'm thine, my highland lassie, O. 

Farewell the glen sae bushy, O ! 
Farewell Ifte plain sae rushi/, O ! 
To other lands I now must go. 
To sing my highlaiui lassie, O .' 



IMPROMPTU, 

ON MRS. 's BIRTH-DAY, 

NOVEMBER 4, 1793. 

Old Winter with his frosty beard, 
Tlius once to Jove his prayer preferr'd ; 
What have I done of all the year, 
To bear this hated doom severe ? 
My cheerless suns no pleasure know; 
Night's horrid car drags, dreary, slow ; 
My dismal months no joys are crowning. 
But spleeny English, hangmg, drowning. 

Now, Jove, for once be mighty civil, 

To counterbalance all this evil ; 

Give me, and I've no more to say. 

Give me Maria's natal day I 

That brilliant gift will so enrich me, 

Spring, summer, autumn, cannot match me, 

'Tis done ! says Jove ; so ends my story, 

And Winter once rejoic'd in glory. 



ADDRESS TO A LADY. 



On, wert thou in the cauld blast, 

On yonder lea, on yonder lea ; 
My plaidio to the angry airt, 

I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee : 
Or did misfortune's bitter storms 

Around thee blaw, around thee blaw. 
Thy bield should be my bosom, 

To share it a' to share it a'. 

Or were I in the wildest waste, 

Sae black and bare, sae black and bare. 
The desart were a paradise. 

If thou wert there, if tliou wert there. 



Or were I monarch o' the globe, 
Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign; 

The brightest jewel in my crown. 
Wad bo my queen, wad be my queen. 



TO A YOUNG LADY, 



MISS JESSY • 



-, DUMFRIES ; 



With Books which the Bard presented het. 

TiiiNE be the volumes, Jessy fair. 
And with them take the poet's prayer ; 
That fate may in her fairest page. 
With every kindhest, best presage 
Of future bliss, enrol thy name : 
With native worth and spotless fame, 
And wakeful caution still aware 
Of ill — but chief, man's felon snare ; 
All blameless joys on earth we find, 
And all the treasures of the mind — 
These be thy guardian and reward ; 
So prays thy faithful friend, Iht Bard. 



SOKKET, written on the '25th of January, 179.*?, 
the Birth-day of the Author, on hearing a 
Thrush sing in a morning Walk. 

Sing on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough : 
Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain : 
See aged Winter, 'mid his surly reign, 

At thy blythe carol clears his furrow'd brow. 

So in lone Poverty's dominion drear, 
Sits meek Content with light unanxious 
heart, [part, 

Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them 

Nor asks if they bring aught to hope or fear. 

I thank thee. Author of this opening' day ! 

Thou whose bright sun now gilds yon orient 
skies ! 

Riches denied, thy boon was purer joys, 
What wealth could never give nor take away I 

Yet come, thou child of poverty and care ; 
The mite high Heaven bestowed, that mite 
with thee I'll share. 



EXTEMPORE, to Mr. S**E, on refusing to 
dine ivith him, after having been promised ih e 
first of Company, and the first of Cooke]/ , 
nth December, 1795. 

No more of your guests, be they titled or not, 
And cook'ry the first in the nation ; 

Who is proof to thy personal converse and wit, 
Is proof to all other temptation. 



124 



BURNS' POEMS. 



To Mr. S**E, with a Present of a Dozen of 
Porter. 

O, HAD the malt thy slrength of mind, 
Or hops the flavour of thy wit, 

'Twere drinli for first of human kind, 
A gift that e'en for S * * e were fit. 

Jervsalem Tavern^ Dumfries. 



THE DUMFRIES VOLUNTEERS. 

Tune — " Push about the Jorum." 
April, 1795. 

Does haughty Gaul invasion threat.' 

Then let the loons beware, Sir, 
There's wooden walls upon our seas, 

And volunteers on shore, Sir. 
The Nith shall run to Corsincon, 

And Criffel sink in Solway, 
Ere we permit a foreig^n foe 

On British ground to rally ! 

Fallde rail, kc 



O let us not like snarling tykes 

In wrangling be divided ; 
Till slap come in an unco loon 

And wi' a rung decide it. 
Be Britain still to Britain true, 

Amang oursels united ; 
For never but by British hands 

Maun British wrangs be righted. 
B'aLL de rail, kc. 



The kettle o' the kirk and state. 

Perhaps a claut may fail in't ; 
But deil a foreign tinkler loun 

Shall ever ca' a nail in't. 
Our fathers' bluid the kettle bought. 

And wha wad dare to spoil it ; 
By heaven the sacrilegious dog 

Shall fuel be to boil it. 

Fall de rail, kc. 



The wretch that wad a tyrant own, 

And the wretch his true-born brother, 
VVlio would set the mob aboon the throne. 

May they be damn'd together 1 
Who will not sing, " God save the King," 

Shall hang as high's the steeple ; 
But while we sing, " God save the King," 

We'll ne'er forget the People. 



POEM, 

ADDRESSED TO MR. MITCHELL, COLLECTOR Of 
EXCISE, DUMFRIES, 179G. 

Friend of the Poet, tried and leal, 
Wha wanting thee, might beg or steal ; 
Alakc, alake, the meikle deil 

Wi' a' his witches 
Are at it, skelpin : jig and reel. 

In my poor pouches. 

I modestly fu' fain wad hint it. 
That one pound one, I sairly want it • 
If wi' the hizzie down ye sent it. 

It would be kind ; 
And while my heart wi' life-blood dunted, 

I'd bear 't in mind. 

So may the auld year gang out moaning 
To see the new come laden, groaning, 
Wi' double plenty o'er the loanin 

To thee and thine ; 
Domestic peace and coniibrts crowning 

The hale design. 



POSTSCRIPT. 



Ye've heard this while how I've been licket, 
And by fell death was nearly nirket : 
Grim loun ! he gat me by the fecket, 

And sair me sheuk ; 
But by guid luck I lap a wicket, 

And turn'd a neuk. 



I But by that health T ve got a share o't. 
And hy that life. I'm promis'd mair o't, 
My hale and weel I'll take a care o't 
A tentier way ; 
( Then farewell folly, hide and hair o't. 

For ance and aye. 



Sent to a Gentleman whom he had offended 



The friend whom wild from wisdom's way 
The fumes of wine infuriate send ; 

(INot moony madness more astray) 
Who but deplores that hapless friend ' 

Mine was th' insensate frenzied part, 
Ah why should I such scenes outlive ! 

Scenes so abhorrent to my heart 1 
'Tis thine to pity and forgive. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



125 



POEM ON LIFE. 

ADDRESSED TO COLONEL DE PETSTER, 
DUMFRIES, 1796. 

My honour'd colonel, deep I feel 
Your interest in the Poet's weal ; 
All 1 now sma' heart hae I to speel 

The steep Parnassus, 
Surrounded thus by bolus pill, 

And potion glasses. 

O what a canty warld were it, 

Would pain and care, and sickness spare it ; 

And fortune favour worth and merit, 

As they deserve : 
(And aye a rowth, roast beef and claret; 

Syne wha wad starve ?) 

Dame Life, tho' fiction out may trick her, 
And in paste gems and frippery deck her ; 
Oil 1 flickering, feeble, and unsicker 

I've found her still, 
Ay wavering like the willow wicker, 

'Tween good and ill. 

Then that curst carmagnole, auld Satan, 
^Vatclies, like baudrans by a rattan, 
Our sinfu' saul to get a claut on 

Wi' felon ire ; 
Syne, whip ! his tail ye'll ne'er cast saut on, 

He's off like fire. 

Ah Nick ! ah Nick ! it is na fair. 
First showing us the tempting ware. 
Bright wines and bonnie lasses rare. 

To put us daft ; 
Syne weave, unseen, thy spider snare 

O' hell's damn'd waft. 



Poor man, the flie, aft bizzes by. 
And aft as chance he comes thee nigh, 
Thy auld damn'd elbow yeiiks wi' joy. 

And hellish pleasure ; 
Already in thy fancy's eye, 

Thy sicker treasure. 

Soon, heels o'er gowdie ! in he gangs, 
And like a sheep-head on a tangs, 
Tiiy girning laugh enjoys his pangs 

And murdering wrestle, 
As dangling in the wind, he hangs 

A gibbet's tassel. 

But lest you think 1 am uncivil. 

To plairue you with this draunting drivel. 

Abjuring a' uitentions evil, 

I quat my pen : 
The Lord preserve us frae the devil ! 

Amen 1 amen 1 



ADDRESS TO THE TOOTH-ACH. 



Mv curse upon thy venom'd stang, 
Tiiat shoots my tortur'd gums alang ; 
And thro' my lugs gies mony a twang, 

VVi'gnawing vengeance ; 
Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang, 

Like rackinu' enjrines ! 



When fevers burn, or ague freezes. 
Rheumatics gnaw, or cholic squeezes; 
Our neighbour's sympathy may ease us, 

Wi' pitying moan ; 
But thee— thou hell o' a' diseases. 

Ay mocks our groan ! 



Adown my beard the slavers trickle ! 
I throw the wee stools o'er the mickle, 
As round the fire the giglets keckle. 

To see me loup ; 
While raving mad, I wish a heckle 

Were in their doup. 



O' a' the num'rous human dools, 
111 har'sts, daft bargains, cutty-stools. 
Or worthy friends rak'd i' the mools, 

Sad sight to see ! 
The tricks o' knaves, or fash o' fools, 

Thou bear'st the gree. 



Where'er that place be priests ca' hell, 
Whence a' the tones o' mis'ry yell, 
And ranked plagues their numbers tell. 

In dreadfu' raw. 
Thou, Tooth-ach, surely bear'st the bell 

Amang them a' ! 



O thou grim, mischief-making chiel, 
That gars the notes of discord squeel. 
Till daft mankind aft dance a reel 

In gore a shoe-thick ; — 
Gie a' the faes o' Scotland's weal 

A towmond's Tooth-ach! 



SONG. 



Tune—" Morag." 



O wiiA is she that lo'es me, 
And has my heart a-keeping? 

O sweet is siie that lo'es me, 
As (lows o' simmer weeping. 
In tears the rose-buds steeping, 



12S 



BURNS POEMS. 



O that^s the lassie o' my heart. 

My lassie ever dearer ; 
O that's the queen o' ivomankind, 

^7id ne'er a ane to peer her. 

If thou shalt meet a lassie, 

In grace and beauty charming, 

Tliat e'en thy cliosen lassie, 

Ere vviiilo thy breast sae warming, 
Had ne'er sic powers alarming. 
O Ihafs, kc. 

If thou hadst heard her talking, 
And thy attentions plighted 

Tliat ilka body talking. 
But her by thee is slighted 
And thou art all delighted. 
O that's, &CC. 

If thou hast met this fair one ; 
When frae her thou hast parted, 

If every other fair one. 

But her thou hast deserted, 
And thou art broken-hearted. — 
O that's, kc. 



SONG. 



Jockey's ta'en the parting kiss. 
O'er the mountains he is gane ; 

And with him is a' my bliss, 

Nought but griefs with me remain. 

Spare my luve, ye winds that blaw, 
Plashy sleets and beating rain ! 

Spare my luve, thou feathery snaw, 
Drifting o'er the frozen plain. 

When the shades of evening creep 
O'er the day's fair, i)"ladsonie e'e, 

Sound and safely may he sleep. 
Sweetly blithe his waukening be I 

He will think on her he loves. 
Fondly he'll repeat her name ; 

For where'er he distant roves. 
Jockey's heart is still at hame. 



SONG. 



Mv Peggy's face, my Peggvs form. 
The frost of hermit age miirht warm ; 
My Pec'gy's worth, my Pe"Li'}''s mind, 
Might cliarm the first of human kind. 



I love my Peggy's angel air, 
Her face so truly, heavenly fair 
Her native grace so void of art. 
But 1 adore my Peggy's heart. 

The lily's hue, the rose's dye, 
The kindling lustre of an eye; 
Who but owns their magic sway 
Who but knows they all decay ! 
The tender thrill, the pitying tear, 
Tlie generous purpose, nobly dear, 
The gentle look, that rage disarms, 
These are all immortal charms. 



WRIT TEJ^ in a Wrapper enclosing a Lette 
to Capl. Grose, to be left tvith Mr. Cardonnelt 
Antiquarian. 

Tune—" Sir John Malcolm." 

Ken ye ought o' Captain Grose.'' 

Igo, S: ago, 
If he's amang his friends or foes ? 

Iram, coram, dago. 

Is he South, or is he North? 

Igo, k ago. 
Or drowned in the river Fortli? 

ham, coram, dago. 

Is he slain by Highland bodies ? 

Igo, k ago. 
And eaten like a weather-haggis 

Iram, coram, dago. 

Is he to Abram's bosom gane ? 

Igo, k ago. 
Or haudin Sarah by the wame? 

Iram, coram, dago. 

Where'er he be, the Lord be near him ! 

Igo, k ago. 
As for the deil, he daur na steer him. 

Iram, coram, dago. 

But please transmit th' enclosed letter, 

Igo, k ago. 
Which will oblige your humble debtor. 

Iram, coram, dago. 

So may ye hae auld stanes in store, 

Igo, k ago. 
The very stanes that Adam bore, 

Iram, coram, dago. 

So may ye get in glad possession, 

Igo, k airo. 
The coins o' Satan's coronation I 

iram, coram, dago. 



BURNS' rOEMS. 



127 



TO ROBERT GRAHAM, Esq., 
OF FINTRT, 



ON RECEIVING A FAVOUR. 

I CALL no goddess to inspire my strains, 
A fabled Muse may suit a bard that fei^s ; 
Friend of my life 1 my ardent spirit bums, 
And all tlio tribute of my heart returns, 
For boons accorded, goodness ever new, 
The gift still dearer, as the giver you. 

Thou orb of day ! tliou other paler light ! 
And all ye many sparkling stars of night; 
If aught that giver from my mind efface; 
If I that giver's bounty e'er disgrace ; 
Then roll to me, along your wandering spheres, 
Only to number out a villain's years 1 



EPITAPH ON A FRIEND. 

An honest man here lies at rest, 
As e'er God with his imaffo blest ; 
The friend of man, the friend of truth : 
The friend of age, and guide of youth : 
Few hearts like his, with virtue warm'd, 
Few heads with knowledge so inform 'd : 
If there's another world, he lives in bliss ; 
If there is none, he made the best of this. 



A GRACE BEFORE DINNER. 

O THOU, who kindly dost provide 

For every creature's want ! 
We bless thee, God of Nature wide, 

For all thy goodness lent : 
And, if it please thee, Heavenly Guide, 

Rlay never v/orse be sent ; 
But whether granted, or denied, 

Lord, bless us with content ! 



Th my dear and much honoured Friend, 
Mrs. Dunlop, of Dunlop, 

ON SENSIBILITY. 

SENsmiLiTV, how charming, 

T/(OM, my/ric7id, canst truly tell; 

But distress with iiorrors anninir. 
Thou hasl also known too well ' 



Fairest flower, behold the lily, 
Blooming in the sunny ray : 

Let the blast sweep o'er the valley, 
See it prostrate on the clay. 

Hear the wood-lark charm the forest, 
Telling o'er his little joys ; 

Hapless bird I a prey the surest, 
To each pirate of the skies. 

Dearly bought the hidden treasure, 
Finer feelings can bestow ; 

Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure. 
Thrill the deepest notes of wo. 



A VERSE composed and repeated by Burns to 
the Master of the House, on taking leave at a 
Place in the Highlands, where he had been 
hospitably entertained. 

When death's dark stream I ferry o'er, 
A time that surely shall come ; 

In Heaven itself, I'll ask no more, 
Than just a Highland welcome. 



FAREWELL TO AYRSHIRE. 

Scenes of wo and scenes of pleasure, 
Scenes that former thoughts renew, 

Scenes of wo and scenes of pleasure, 
Now a sad and last adieu 1 

Bonny Doon, sae sweet at gloamin. 
Fare thee weel before I gang ! 

Bonny Doon, whare early roaming, 
First I weav'd the rustic sang ! 

Bowers, adieu, whare Love, decoying, 
First intlirall'd this heart o' mine, 

There the safest sweets enjoying, — 
Sweets that Mem'ry ne'er shall tyne ! 

Friends, so near my bosom ever. 
Ye liae render'd moments dear ; 

But, alas I when forc'd to sever, 
Then the stroke, O, how severe ! 

Friends ! that parting tear reserve it, 

Tho' 'tis doubly dear to me ! 
Could I think I did deserve it. 
How much happier would 1 be ! 

Scenes of wo and scenes of pleasure 
Scenes that former thoughts renew 

Scenes of wo and scenjes of pleasure, 
Now a sad and last adieu 1 



MISCELLANEOUS POETRY, 



SELECTED FROM 



mm s^ms 



ROBERT BTTRXTS 

FIRST PUBLISHED BY R. H. CROMEK. 



VERSES WRITTEN AT SELKIRK. 



L 



AuLD chuckle Reekie's* sair distrest, 
Down droops her ance weel bumisht crest, 
Nae joy her bonnie busket nest 

Can yield ava, 
Hor darling bird that she lo'es best, 
WilUe's awa ! 

n. 

O Willie was a witty wi^ht, 
And had o' things an unco slight ; 
Auld Reekie ay he keepit tight, 

And trig an' braw : 
But now they'll busk her like a fright, 
Willie's awa ! 

m. 

The Ktiifest o' them a' he bow'd, 
Tbs bauldest o' them a' he cow'd ; 
They durst nao mair than he allow'd, 

That was a law : 
We've lost a birkie weel worth gowd, 
Willie's awa 1 

IV. 

Now gawkirs, tawpies, gowks and fools, 
Frae colleges and boarding schools, 

• Edlnbureh. 



May sprout like simmer puddock-stools. 

In glen or shaw ; 
He wha could brush them down to mools, 
Willie's awa. 



V. 



The brethren o' the Commcrce-Chaumer* 
May mourn their loss wi' doolfu' clamour; 
He was a dictionar and grammar 

Amang them a' ; 
I fear they'll now mak mony a stammer, 
Willie's awa I 

VI. 

Nae mair we see his levee door 
PhDosophers and Poets pour,t 
And toothy critics by tlie score, 

In bloody raw ! 
The adjutant o' a' the core, 

Willie's awa ! 

vn. 

Now worthy G*****y's latin face, 
T****r's and G****^****'s modest grace i 
M'K****e, S****t,such a brace 

As Rome ne'er saw ; 
They a' maun meet some itlier place, 
Willie's awa 1 

* The Chamber of Commerce of Edinburgh, of which 
Mr. C. was Secretary. 

t Many literary gentlemen were accustomed to njee< 
at Mr. C — 's house at breakfast. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



129 



VIII. 



Poor Bums — e'en Scotch drink canna quicken, 
He cheeps like some bewildcr'd cliicken, 
Scar'd fVac its minnie and the cieckin 

By hoodie-craw ; 
Grief's gien his heart an unco kickin, 
VViUie's awa I 

IX. 

Now ev'ry sour-mou'd gimin' blellum, 
And Calvin's lock are fit to fell him ; 
And sell-conceited critic skcUum 

His quill may draw ; 
He wha could brawlie ward their belluni, 
Willie's awa 1 



X. 



Up wimpling stately Tweed I've sped, 
And Eden scenes on crystal Jed, 
And Ettrick banks now roaring red. 

While tempests blaw ; 
But every joy and pleasure's fled, 

Willie's awa ! 

XI. 

May I be slander's common speech ; 
A text for infamy to preach ; 
And lastly, streekit out to bleach 

In winter snaw ; 
When I forget thee ! Willie Creecli, 
Tho' far awa ! 

XII. 

May never wicked fortune touzle him ! 
May never wicked men bamboozle him ! 
Until a pow as auld's Methusalem I 

He canty claw ! 
Then to the blessed, New Jerusalem, 

Fleet wing awa I 



LIBERTY. 

A FRAGMENT. 

Thee, Caledonia, thy wild heaths among. 
Thee, famed for martial deed and sacred song. 

To thee I turn with swimming eyes ; 
Where is that soul of freedom fled? 
Immlngled with the mighty dead ! 

Beneath that hallowed turf where Wallace 
lies 1 
Hear it not, Wallace, in thy bed of death 1 

Ye Inilililing winds in silence sweep; 

Di.sliub not ye the hero's sleep, 
Nor trivc liie coward secret breath — 
K 



Is this the power in freedom s war 

That wont to bid the battle rage? 
Behold that eye which shot inunorlal hate. 

Crushing the despot's proudest bearing, 
That arm which, nerved with thundering fate, 

Braved usurpation's boldest daring ! 
One quench'd in darkness like the sinking 

star. 
And one the palsied arm of tottering, power- 
less age. 



ELEGY 



ON THK I<EATH OF ROBERT RUISSEAUX.' 



Now Robin lies in his last lair. 

He'll gabble rhyme, nor sing nae mair, 

Cauld poverty, wi' hungry stare, 

Nae mair shall fear him ; 
Nor anxious fear, nor cankert care 

E'er mair come near aim. 

To tell the truth, they seldom fasht him ; 
Except the moment that they crusht him ; 
For sune as chance or fate had husht 'em 

Tho' e'er sae short. 
Then wi' a rhyme or song he lasht 'em, 

And thought it sport.^ 

Tho' he was bred to kintra wark, 

And counted was baith wight and stark, 

Yet that was never Robin's mark 

To mak a man ; 
But tell liim, he was learn'd and clark, 

Ye roos'd him then 1 



COMIN THRO' THE RYE. 



CoMiN thro' the rye, poor body, 

Comin thro' the rye. 
She draigl't a' her petticoatie 
Comin thro' the rye. 

Oh Jenny's a' weet, poor body, 

Jenny's seldom dry : 
Sie draigl't a' her petticoatie 
Comin thro' the rye. 

Gin a body meet a body 

Comin thro' the rye, 
Gin a body kiss a body. 

Need a body cry. 

Oh Jenny's a' weet, &c. 



* Ruisscaiix — a play op. Iiis own name. 



130 



BURNS' POEMS. 



Gin a body meet a body 

Coinin tluo' Uio glon ; 
Gin a body kiss a body, 

Wood llio warld koii, 

Oh Jenny's a' weet, i:c. 



THE LOYAL NATIVES' VERSES.* 

Yk sons of sedition, give ear to my song. 
Let Syme, Hums, and Maxwell, pervade every 

tlironir. 
With Craken, the attorney, and Mundcll the 

quack, 
Scud Willie the monger to hell witli a smack. 



BURNS— Extempore. 

Ye true " Loyal Natives," attend to my song, 
In uproar and riot rejoice the nigiit long ; 
From cnri/ and liatreii your corps is cxenijit; 
But wliero is your sliield from the dart of 
contempt .' 



TO J. LAPRAIK. 

Sept. Ulh, 1785. 

Guio speed an' furder to you Johnie, 

Guid health, hale ban's, and weather bonnie ; 

Now when yoVo nickan down fu' cannio 

The staJfo' bread. 
May ye ne'er want a sloup o' brandy 

To clear your head. 

May Boreas never tliresli your rigs, 
Nor kick your riekles alf their legs, 
Sendin the stuff o'er muirs an' iiaggs 

Like drivin wrack ; 
But may tlio tapmast ^rain that wags 

Come to the sack. 

I'm bizzio too, an' skclpin at it, 

But bitter, daudin showers hae wat it, 

• At tliis period of our Poet's life when political ani- 
mosity was made tlio srounii of private qiiarri'l, liic 
obove foolish verses were sent as an attack on Rurns 
and his friends for their political opinions. They were 
written liy some nieinlier of n club styling tlieniselves 
the /.otjdl JVatires of Piuufries, or rntlier by the united 
gcniusof that club, which was more distinguished for 
drunken loyalty, than either for respectability or poeti- 
cal lalout The verses were handed over the table to 
Burns at a convivial meeting, and he instantly endorsed 
Uie subjoined reply. lidiqiusjp. 168. 



Sae my old stumpie pen I gat it 

\Vi' iiiucklo wark. 

An' took my joctcleg an' whatl it. 

Like ony clerk. 

It's now twa month that I'm your debtor, 
For your braw, lumielcss, dateless letter, 
Abusin me for harsh ill nature 

On holy men, 
While dicl a hair yoursel ye"re better. 

But mair profane. 

But let the kirk-folk ring their bells, 
Let's sing about our noble sols ; 
We'll cry nae jads frae hoalheii hills 

To help, or n)ose us, 
But browster wives and whiiskie stills, 

T/ui/ are the muses. 

Your friendship, Sir, I winna quat it, 

An' if ye inak objections al it. 

Then ban' in nieve some day we'll knot it. 

An' witness take, 
An' when wi' usquebao we've wat it 

It winna break. 

But if the beast and branks be spar'd 
Till kyo bo gauii without tiic herd, 
An' a' the vittel m the yard, 

An' thcckit right, 
I mean your ingle-side to guard 

Ac winter night. 

Then muse-inspiring aqua-vitm 

Shall make us baith sae blithe an' witty, 

Till ye forget ye're auld an' gatty. 

An' be as canty 
As ye were nine years less liian thretty. 

Sweet ane an' twenty . 

But stooks are cowpet wi' the blast, 
An' now the sun kecks in tlio west, 
Then I maun rin amang tlie rest 

All' quat my chanter 
Sae I subscribe mj'sel in ha.vte, 

\ours. Uab the Ranter. 



TO THE REV. JOHN M'MATH. 

ENCLOSING A COPY OF HOLY WILLIe's rR.iYiR, 
WHICH HE H.ID REOUESTED. 

Sept. 17//^ 1785. 

W'hilf. at the stook the shearers cow'r 
To shun tlie bitter blaudin sliow'r. 
Or hi gulravage rinniii scow'r 

To pass tiie time. 
To you I dedicate tlie hour 

In idle rhyme. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



131 



My musie, tir'd wi' mony a sonnet 

On gown, an' ban', an' douse black bonnet, 

Is grown nglil eerie now slio's done it, 

Lest they should blame her 
An' rouse their holy thunder on it 

And anatheni her. 



I own 'twas rash, an' rather hardy, 
That I, a sunple, kiiitra bardie. 
Should meddle wi' a pack sae sturdy, 

Wlia, if they ken me, 
Can easy, wi* a suigle wordie, 

Lowse h-U upon me. 



But I gac mad at their grimaces. 
Their sighan, cantan, grace-prood faces, 
Their three mile prayers, an' hauf-mile graces, 

Their raxan conscience, 
Whasc greed, revenge, an' i)rido disgraces 

Waur nor their nonsense. 



There's Gaun^* miska't waur than a beast, 
AVha has mair honour in his breast. 
Than mony scores as guid's the i)riest 

Wha sae abus't him ; 
An' may a bard no crack his jest [him. 

What way tliey've use't 



See himt the poor man's friend in need. 
The gentleman in word an' deed, 
An' shall his fame an' honour bleed 

By worthless skellums. 
An' not a muse erect her head 

To cowe the blrllums? 



n Pope, had I thy satire's darts 
To gie the rascals their deserts, 
I'd rip their rotten, hollow iiearts, 

An' tell aloud 
Their jugglin hocus-pocus arts 

To cheat the crowd. 



God knows, I'm no the thing T should be. 
Nor am I even the thing I could he. 
But twenty times, I rather would be, 

An' atheist clean. 
Than under gospel colours hid be. 

Just for a screen. 



An honest man may like a glass, 
An honest man may like a lass, 

•Gavin Hamilton, Esq. 

tThe poet has introduced the two first lines of the 
Etanza into the dedication of his works to Mr. Hamilton. 



But mean revenge, an' malice fauso, 
He'll still disdain, 

An' then cry zeal for gospel laws. 

Like some wc ken. 



They take religion in their mouth ; 
Tiiey talk o' mercy, grace an' truth, 
For what ^ to gic their malice .skouth 

On some [juir wight, 
An' hunt him down, o'er right an' ruth, 

To ruin streiaiit. 



All hail, Religion ! maid divine ! 
Pardon a muse sae mean as mine. 
Who in her rough imperfect line 

Thus daurs to name thee ; 
To stigmatize false friends of thine 

Can ne'er defame thee. 



Tho' blotcht an' foul wi' mony a stain, 

An' far unworthy of thy train. 

With trembling voice I tune my strain 

To join with those. 
Who boldly dare thy cause maintain 

In spite of foes : 



In spite o' crowds, in spite o' mobs, 
In spite of undermining jobs, 
In spite o' dark banditti stabs 

At worth an' merit, 
By scoundrels, even wi' holy robes, 

But helhsh spirit. 



O Ayr, my dear, my native ground. 
Within thy presbytereal bound 
A candid lib'ral band is found 

Of public teachers. 
As men, as christians too renown'd. 

An' manly preachers. 



Sir, in that circle you are nam'd; 
Sir, in that circle you are fam'd; 
An' some, by whom your doctrine's blam'd 

(Whicii gies you honour; 
Even, Sir, by them your heart's e.^tecm'd. 

An' winning manner. 



Pardon this freedom I have ta en, 

An' if impertinent I've been. 

Impute it not, good Sir, in ano [yp, 

Whase heart ne er wrang'd 
But to his utmost would befriend 

Ought that btjlang'd 3*. 



132 



BURNS' POEMS. 



TO GAVIN HAMILTON, Esa, 



MAUCHLINK, 



(recommending a boyJ 



Mosgaville, May, 3, 1786. 

I HOLD it, Sir, my boundcii duty 

To warn )'oa liow tli;it Master Tootio, 

Alias, Laird M'Gaun,* 
Was here to liire yon lad away 
'Bout whom yc spak the tidier day. 

An' wad liao don't aff liau' : 
But lest he learn the eallan tricks. 

As failh 1 inm-klo doubt him. 
Like scrapin out auld crumniic's nicks, 
An' tellin lies about tlioin ; 
As liovc then I'd have then. 

Your clerkshii) ho should sair, 
If sac be, ye may be 
Not fitted otherwhere. 



Altho' I say't, he's s}cs, enough. 

An' bout a house that's rude an' rough. 

The boy migiit learn to sn-ear ; 
But then wi' (/OM, Iie'li be sac taught, 
An' get sic fair example straught, 

I hae iia oiiy fear. 
Ye'll catechize him every quirk, 

An' shore hiin well wi' hell ; 

All' gar him follow to the kirk 

— Ay when ye gang j/oursel. 
If ye then, maun be then 

Frao liamo this coinin Friday, 
Tlien please. Sir, to lea'e. Sir, 
The orders wi' your lady. 



My word of honour I hae gicn. 

In Paisley John's, that night at e'en, 

To meet the U'dild's norm; 
To try to get the twa to groe. 
An' name the airles an' the fee. 

In legal mode an' form : 
I ken he weel a Snick can draw, 

AVhen simjjlo bodies let him ; 
An' if a Devil be at a', 

In faith he's sure to get him. 
To i)iuaso you an' praise you, 
Ye ken your I jaureat scorns : 
The praver still, you share still. 
Of o-nueful :Miiistrcl Burns. 



• Ma.tter Tootic tlicn lived in Jlaucliline ; a ilealcr 
In Cows. Il was liis coinmoii practice to cut llie iiiclis 
or marliings from tlio iioriis of cattle, to disguise tlieir 
age. — He was au artful trick cuiitriviii!; cliaracter ; 
hence lie is callod a Snick-drairrr. In the. Pont s 'Kl't- 
drrss to the. 7)i(7," he styles that aiipvist personage an 
auii, snicli-drawing dug I licliijuei', p. '397. 



TO MR. M'ADAM 
OF CRAIGEN-GILLAN, 

In a7iswer to an oblig^ing Letter he sent in ih, 
commencanent of my Poetic Career. 

Sir, o'er a gill I gat your card, 

I trow it made me proud ; 
See wha taks notice o' tlie bard ! 

I lap and cry'd fu' loud. 



Now deil-ma-care about their jaw, 
The senseless, gawky million ; 

I'll cock my nose aboon them a', 
I'm roos'd by Craigen-Gillan '. 

'Twas noble, Sir ; 'twas like yoursel, 
To grant your high protection : 

A great man's smile ye ken fu' well, 
Is ay a blest infection. 

Tho', by his banes wha in a tub 
Match'd Macedonian feandyl 

On my ain leg's* thro' dirt an' dub, 
I independent staiad ay. — 

And when those logs to guid, warm kail, 
Wi' welcome canna bear mo ; 

A lee dyke-side, a sybow-tail, 
And barley-scone shall cheer mc. 

Heaven s]>are you lang to kiss tho brcatli 

O' mony llow'ry simmers '. 
And bless ^'our bonnie lassos baith, 

I'm tald tlie'rc loosome kimmersl 

And God bless young Dunaskin's laird. 

The blo.ssom of our gentry'. 
And may he wear an auld man's beard 

A credit to his countjy. 



TO CAPTAIN RIDDEL, 
GLEN RIDDEL. 

{Extempore Li7ies on returning a J^''ewspaper.} 

JP.Uisland, Jihnday Evening: 

Your news and review. Sir, I've read tlirough 
and throuoh. Sir, 

With little tidmiriiigor blaming; 
The papers are barren of home-news or foreign, 

No nuudei-s or rapes vvortli the naming. 

Our friends the reviewers, those chippers and 
hewers. 
Are judges of mortar and stone, Sir ; 



JBURNS' POEMS. 



133 



But of nicfl, or unmrcl, in rifabrick romplete, 
I'll boldly pronounce Uicy aio none, iSir. 

My goose-quill too rudo is, to tell all your 
goodness 
Bestovv'd on your servant, the Poet; 
VVould to God 1 had one like a beam of the 
sun. 
And tlicn all tlio world. Sir, should know it ! 



TERRAUGIITY,* 



ON HIS BIRTII-DAY. 

Health to the Maxwells' vetVan Chief ! 
Ileallli, ay unsour'd by care or grief: 
Inspir'd, 1 turn'd l"';ito's sibyl loaf^ 

'riiis iKital morn, 
I see thy life is stull" n' pricf, 

Scarce quite half worn. — 

This da}' thou motes throcscore eleven, 
And I can tell that bounteous Heaven 
(The second sight, ye ken, is given 

To ilka I'oct) 
On thee a tack o' seven times seven 

Will yet bestow it. 

If envious buckles view wi' sorrow, 

Thy lengthen 'd days on liiis blest morrow, 

May desolation's lang-teetird harrow, 

Nino miles an hour. 
Rake them, like Sodoinand Gomorrah, 

In brunstane stouro-^ 

But for thy friends, and they are mony, 
l?aith honest men and lasses boimie, 
]May couthio fortune, kind and cannie, 

hi social glee, 
Wi' mornings blithe and c'enings funny 

Bless them and thee I 

Fareweel, auld birkic ! Lord be near ye. 
And then the Doil he daur na steer ye : 
Your friends ay lov(^your faes ay fear ye, 

I'or me, shame fa' me. 
Ifnoist my heart I diiiiia wear ye, 

While JJurns they ca' me. 



TO A LADY, 

TVith a Presenl of a Pair of Drmking-G lasses. 

Faih Empress of the Poet's soul. 
And Queen of Poetesses ; 

♦ Mr. Maxwell, of Tcrraugliiy, near Dumfries. 



Clarinda, take fliis little boon. 
This humble pair of glasses.— 

And fill them higli with generous juice. 
As generous as your mind ; 

And pledge mo in the gctierous toast-^ 
" The whole of human kind .'" 

" To those who love lis .'" — second fill ; 

i5ut not to those whom we love; 
Lest we love tiioso who love not us! 

A third — " lo thee and me, love .'" 



THE VOWELS. 



'TwAs where the biroh and sounding thong aro 

plied 
The noisy domicile of pedant pride ; 
Where ignorance her darkening vapour throwB, 
And cruelty directs the; thickening blows ; 
Upon a time, Sir Abe(;o the great, 
In all his pedagogic powers elate 
His awlul chair of state resolves to mount. 
And call the trembling vowels to account. 

First enter'd A, a grave, broad, solemn wight, 
But, ah ! deform'd, dishonest to the sight! 
His twisted head look'd backward on his way 
And flagrant from the scourge, he grunted, ai! 

Reluctant, E stalk'd in ; with ))ileous grace 
T'he justling tears ran down his honest face . 
That name, that well-worn name, and all Km 

own, 
Palo he surrenders at the tyrant's throne ! 
The pedant stifles keen IIk; Konian sr)und 
Not all his mongrel diphthongs c:u) compound* 
And next the tiile following close behind, 
Ho to the nameless, ghastly wretch assigii'd. 

The cobwcb'd gothic dome resounded, Y I 
In sullen vengeance, 1, disdain'd, rejtiy : 
The pedant swung his felon cudg(5l refund. 
And knock'd the groaning vowel to the 
ground ! 

Tn nieful apj)rehonsion enter'd O, 
The waihng minstrel ofdes[)airing wo; 
Th' Inquisitor of Spain the most expert. 
Might there have learnt new mysteries of hia 

art: 
So grim, deform'd, with horrors entering U, 
His dearest friend and brother scarcely know! 

As trembling U stood staring nil aghast. 
The pedant iti his h^ft hand (^liitch'd him fast, 
In helpless infant's tears he dipp'd his right, 
Baptiz'd hina eu, and kick'd him from his sight. 



134 



BURNS' POEMS. 



SKETCH.* 



A LITTLE, upright, pert, tart, tripping wight, 
And still his precious self his dear deligjit ; 
Who loves his own smart shadow in tlie streets, 
Better than e'er the fairest she he meets, 
A man of fashion too, lie made his tour, 
Learned vive la bagatelle, el vive Varnour ; 
So traveli'd monkeys their grimace improve, 
Polish tlieir grin, nay, sigh for ladies' love. 
Much specious lore, but little understood ; 
Veneering oft outshines the solid wood : 
His solid sense — by inches you must tell. 
But mete his cunning by the old Scots ell ; 
His meddling vanity, a busy fiend, 
Still making work his selfish craft must mend. 



SCOTS PROLOGUE, 

For Mr, Sutherland's Benefit J^Tight, Dumfries. 



What neeils this din about the town o' Lon'on, 
How this new play an' that new sang is 

comin ? 
Wny is outlandish stuff sae meikle courted ? 
Does nonsense mend like whisky, when im- 
ported? 
Is there nae poet, burning keen for fame, 
Will try to gio us sangs and plays at hame? 
For comedy abroad he need iia toil, 
A fool and knave are plants of every soil ; 
Nor need he hunt as far as Iloom and Greece 
To gatlier matter for a serious piece ; 
There's themes enough in Caledonian storj'. 
Would show the tragic muse in a' her glory. — 

Is there no daring bard will rise, and tell 
How glorious Wallace stood, how, hapless, 

fell? 
Where are the muses fled tliat could produce 
A drama worthy o' the name o' Bruce ; 
How here, even here, he first unsheath'd the 

sword 
'Gainst mighty England and her guilty lord ; 



*This sketch seems to be one of a Series, Intended for 
a projected work, under the title of " The PoeVs Pro- 
ffi-ess." Tliis diameter was sent as a specimen, ac- 
companied by a letter to Profcasor Dug-nld Stcieart, in 
wliich it is tlius noticed- "The fragment beginning >4 
little, upright, pert, tart, &c. I liave not shown to 
any man living, till I now send it to you. It forms the 
postulata, the axioms, the definition of a character, 
which, if it appear at all, shall be placed in a variety of 
lights. This particular part I send you merely as a 
sample of my hand at portrait sketching." 



And after mony a blood}', deathless doing, 
Wrench'd his dear comitry from the jaws of 

ruin ? 
O for a Shakspeare or an Otway scene. 
To draw the lovely, hapless Scottish Queen ! 
Vain all th' omnipotence of female cliarms 
'Gainst headlong, rutliless, mad Rebellion's 

arms. 
She fell, but fell with spirit truly Roman, 
To glut the vengeance of a rival woman : 
A woman, tho' the plirase may seem uncivil, 
As able and as cruel as the Devil 1 
One Douglas lives in Home's immortal page, 
But Douglases were heroes every age : 
And tho' your fathers, prodigal of life, 
A Douglas followed to tlic nuirlial strife. 
Perhaps if bowls row rigiit, and Right succeeds, 
Ye yet may follow where a Douglas leads I 



As ye hae generous done, if a' the land 
Would take the muses' servants by the hand; 
Not only hear, but patronise, befriend them, 
And where ye justly can commend, commend 

them 
And aiblins when they winna stand the test, 
Wink hard and say, the folks hae done their 

best ! 
Would a' the land do this, then I'll be caution 
Ye'll soon hae poets o' the Scottish nation. 
Will gar fame blaw until her trumpet crack, 
And warsle time an' lay him on his back ! 



For us and for our stage should ony spier, 
" Whose aught thae duels maks a' this bustle 

here.-"' 
My best leg foremost, I'll set up my brow. 
We have the honour to belong to you ! 
We're your own bairns, e'en guide us as ye like. 
But like good mithcrs, shore before ye strike,— 
And gratefu' still I hope ye'll ever find us, 
For a' the patronage and meikle kmdness 
We've got frae a' professions, sets and ranks : 
God help us ! we're but poor — ^j'e'se get but 
thanks. 



EXTEMPORANEOUS EFFUSION 



APPOINTED TO THE. EXCISE. 



Se.\rching auld wives' barrels 

Och, ho ! the day ! 
That clarty barm should stain my laurels 

But — what '11 ye say I 
Tliese muvin' things ca'd wives and weans 
Wad muve the very hearts o' stanes ' 



BURNS' POEMS. 



135 



On teeing the beautiful Seal of Lord O. 

What dost tliou in that mansion fair I 

Flit, G , ami find 

Some narrow, dirty, dungeon cave, 

Tiie picture of tiiy mind I 



On tlie Same. 



No Stewart art tliou G , 

Tiio Stewarts all were bravo ; 

Besides, the Stewarts wore bui fools. 
Not one of them a knave. 



On the Same. 



Bright ran thy line, O G , 

Tliro' many a far-fam'd sire ! 

So ran tiie far-fanfd Roman way, 
So ended in a mire. 



To the Same, on the ./Author being threatened 
with his Resentment. 

Spare mo thy venrreance, G , 

In quiet let me live : 
I ask no kindness at tJiy hand. 

For thou hast none to give. 



THE DEAN OF FACULTY. 



A NEW BALLAD. 

TtTNE— " The Dragon of Wantley." 

I/IRE was the hate at old Plarlaw, 

That Scot to Scot did carry ; 
And dire the discord Langsidc saw, 

For beauteous, hapless Mary : 
But Scot with Scot ne'er met so hot, 

Or were more in fury so<?n. Sir, 
Tlian 'twixt Hal and Boh for the famous job- 

Wlio should be Facultj/s Dean:. Sir. — 



Tliis Ilal for genius, wit, and lore, 

Among the first was number'd ; 
But i)ious Bob^ 'mid learning's store. 

Commandment tenth rcmember'd.— 
Yet sim])le Bob the viciory got, 

And Won his heart's desire ; 
Which shows that heaven can boil the pot, 

Though the devil p — s intlie fire. — 

Squire Hal, besides, had in this case, 

I'rctcnsions rather brassy, 
For talents to deserve a place 

Are qualifications saucy ; 
So their worships of the Faculty, 

Quite sick of merit's rudeness. 
Chose one who siiould owe it all, d'ye see, 

To their gratis grace and goodness. 

As once on Pisgah purg'd was the sight 

Of a son of Circumcision, 
So may be, on this I'isgah height, 

Rob''s purblind, mental vision: 
Nay, Bobbij s mouth may bo opendyot. 

Till for eloquence you hail him, 
And swear he has the Angel met 

That met the Ass of Balaam. — 



EXTEMPORE IN THE COURT OF 
SESSION. 

Tune—" Gillicrankio." 



He clench 'd his pamphlets in liis fist, 

He quoted and he liinted, 
Till in a declamation-mist, 

His arirument he tint it: 
He gaped for 't, he graj)ed for 't, 

He fand it was awa, man ; 
But what his common sense came short. 

He eked out wi' law, man. 



MR. ER — NE. 

Collected Harry stood awee, 

Then open'd out his arm, man ; 
His lordship sat wi' ruefu' e'e, 

And ey'd tlic gathering storm, man; 
Like wind-driv'n hail it did assail, 

Or torrents owre a lin, man ; 
The Bnich sae wise lift up their eyes 

Ilalf-wauken'd wi' the din, man. 



136 



BURNS' POEMS. 



VERSES TO J. RANKEN. 

IThe Person to whom his Poem on shooting the 
Partridge is addressed, ichileRanken occupied 
the Farm o/AdamhilU in Ayrshire.'] 

Ae day, as Deatli, that gruesome carl, 

Was driving to the tither warl 

A mixtie-maxtic motley squad, 

And mony a guilt-bespotted lad ; 

Black gowns of each denomination. 

And thieves of every rank and station, 

From him that wears the star and garter, 

To him that wintles* in a halter : 

Asham'd himself to see the wretches. 

Ho mutters, glow'rin at the bitches, 

" By G-d ril not be seen bchint them. 

Nor 'mang the sp'ritiuil core present them, . 

Without, at least ae honest man. 

To grace this d d infernal clan." 

By Adamhill a glance he threw, 
" L — d G-d !" quoth he, " 1 have it now 
There's just the man I want, in faith," 
And quickly stoppit Rankeii's breath. 



On hearing that there rvas Falsehood in the Rev. 
Dr. B 'i very Looks. 

That there is falscliood in his looks 

I must and will deny : 
They say their master is a knave — 

And sm'c they do not lie. 



On a Schoolmaster in Cleish Parish, Fifeshire. 

Herk lie Willie M — hie's banes, 

O Satan, when ye tak him, 
Gie him the schulin of your weans ; 

For clever Deils he'll mak 5m ! 



ADDRESS TO GENERAL DUxMOURIER. 

(a parody on robin ADAIR.) 

You're welcome to Despots, Dimiourier; 
You're welcome to Despots, Duinourier. — 
How does Dampiere do ? 

Ay, and Bournonville too? [ourier? 

Why did they not come along with you, Dum- 

* The word fl'intle, donnlpssinUlen and involuntary 
motion. In the liidicrons sense in whicli ilis here ap- 
plied, it may be admirably translated by tlie vulgar 
London expression of Dancing upon nothing. 



I will fight France with you, Dumourier. — 
I will fight France willi you, Dmnourier:— 
I will fight France willi you, 
I will take my chance with you ; 
By my soul Fll dance a dance with you, Duiu< 
ourier. 



Then let us fight about, Dumourier ; 

Then let us fight about, Dumourier ; 

Then let us fight about. 

Till freedom's spark is out. 

Then we'll be d-mned no doubt — Dumourier. 



ELEGY ON THE YEAR 178S. 



A SKETCH. 

For Lords or Kings I dinna mourn. 
E'en let them die — for that they're born : 
But oh ! prodigious to rcfiec' ! 
A Towmonl, Sirs, is gane to wreck ! 
O Eighty-ciglil, in thy sma' space 
What dire events hae taken place ! 
Of what enjoyments thou hast reft us! 
In what a pickle thou hast left us I 



The Spanisli empire 's tint a head. 
An' my auld teethless Bawtie's dead ; 
The tulzie 's teugh 'tween Pitt an' Fo.y, 
And 'tween our Maggie's twa wee cocks* 
The tanc is game, a bluidie devil, 
But to the hen-birds unco civil ; 
The tither's something dour o' treadin. 
But better stuff ne'er claw'd a midden— 



Ye ministers, come mount the poupet, 
An' cry till ye be haerse an' roupit. 
For Eighty-eight, he wish'd you vveel, 
An' gied you a' baith gear an' meal ; 
E'en mony a plack, and mony a peck, 
Ye ken yoursels, for little feck I 



Ye bonnie lasses, dight your ecn, 
For some o' you hae tint a frien' ; 
In Eighty-eight, yc ken, was ta'en 
What ye"ll ne'er hae to gie again. 

Observe the very nowt an' sheep. 
How dowf and dowie now they creep; 
Nay, even the yirth itsel does cry, 
For E'nbrugh wells are grutten dry. 

O Eighty-nine, thou's but a baim, 
An' no o'er auld, I hojie. to learn ! 
Thou beardless boy, I pray tak care. 
Thou now has got thy Daddy's chair 



BURNS' POEMS. 



137 



Nae hand-cuffd, mizzl'd, hap-shackl'd Regent, 
But, like hiirisel, a full free agent. 
Bo sure ye follow out the plan 
Nae waur than he did, honest man ; 
As niuckle better as you can. 

January 1, 1789. 



VERSES 

Written under the Portrait of Fergusson^ the 
Foet, in a copy of that author''s ivorks presented 
to a young Lady in Edinburgh, March 19, 
1787. 

Curse on ungrateful man, that can be pleas'd, 
And yet can starve the author of the pleasure 1 
O thou my elder brother in misfortune, 
By far my elder brother in the muses. 
With tears I pity thy unhappy fate ! 
Why is the bard unpiticd by the world. 
Yet has so keen a relish of its pleasures ? 



SONGS. 



UP IN THE MORNING EARLY.* 

Up in the morning'' s no for me, 

Up in the morning early ; 
When a' the hills are covered wi'' snaw, 

I 'hj sure it's winter fairly. 

Cold blaws the wind frae east to west, 

The drift is driving sairly ; 
Sae loud and shrill's I hear the blast, 

I'm sure it's winter fairly. 

The birds sit chittering in the thorn, 

A' day they fare but sparely ; 
And lang's the night frae e'en to mom, 

I'm sure it's winter fairly. 

Up in the morning. Sec. 



SONG. 

I DREAM'D I LAY WHERE FLOWERS 
WERE SPRlNGING.t 

I dream'd I lay where flowers were springing, 
Gaily in the sunny beam ; 

* The chorii3 is old. 
t These two stanzas T composed when T was seven- 
teen, and are among llie oldest of my printed pieces. 
Burns' Jicliijues, p. 242. 

K2 



List'ning to the wild birds singing, 

By a falling, crystal stream ; 
Straight the sky grew black and daring ; 

Thro' the woods the whirlwinds rave ; 
Trees with aged arms were warring 

O'er the swelling, drumlie wave. 

Such was my life's deceitful morning, 

Such the pleasures 1 enjoy'd ; 
But lang or noon, lotid tempests storming 

A' my flow'ry bliss destroy'd. 
TJio' fickle fortune lias deceived me, 

She promis'd fair, and pcrform'd but ill ; 
Of mony a joy and hope bereav'd me, 

I bear a heart shall support me still. 



SONG.* 

BEWARE O' BONNIE ANN. 

Ye gallants bright T red you right, 

Beware o' bonnie Ann ; 
Her comely face sae fu' o' grace, 

Your heart she will trepan. 
Her een sae bright, like stars by night, 

Her skin is like the swan ; 
Sae jimply lac'd her genty waist. 

That sweetly ye might span. 

Youth, grace, and love, attendant move. 

And pleasure leads the van : 
In a' their charms, and conquering arms, 

They wait on bonnie Ann. 
The captive bands may chain the hands, 

But love enslaves the man ; 
Ye gallants braw, I red ye a'. 

Beware o' bonnie Arm. 



SONG. 

MY BONNIE MARY.t 

Go fetch to me a pint o' wine. 

An' fill it in a silver tassie ; 
That I may drink before I go, 

A service to my bonnie lassie ; 
The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith ; 

Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the ferry; 
The ship rides by the Berwick-law, 

And I maun lea'e my bonnie Mary. 

*I composed tliis song out of compliment to Misf'AEjn 
Masterton, the daiigliter of my friend Allan Masterton, 
the author of the air of Strathallan'sLanjent, and two 
or three others in this work. Burns' Reliques, p. 266. 

t This air is Oswald's ; the first half-stanza of the 
song is old. 



138 



BURNS* POEMS. 



The trumpets sound, the banners fly, 

Tlie glittering spears are ranked ready ; 
The shouts o' war are heard afar, 

The battle closes thick and bloody ; 
But it's not the roar o' sea or shore 

Wad make me langcr wish to tarry ; 
Nor shouts o' war that's heard afar, 

It's leaving tliee, my bonnie Mary, 



SONG. 



THERE'S A YOUTH IN THIS CITY.* 



There's a youth in this city, it were a gi-eat 

pity 

That he from our lasses should wander awa ; 
For he's bonnie and braw, weel-favour'd 
with a', 
And his hair has a natural buckle and a'. 
His coat is the hue of his bonnet sae blue ; 

His fecket is white as the new-driven snaw ; 
His liose they are blae, and his shoon like the 
slae, 
And liis clear siller buckles they dazzle us a\ 
His coat is the hue, &c. 

For beauty and fortune tlie laddie's been 
courtin ; 
Weel-featur'd, weel-tocher'd, weel-mounted 
and braw ; 
But chiefly the siller, thai gars him gang till 
her, 
The pennie's the jewel that beautifies a'. — 
There's Meg wi' the mailen, that fain wad a 
haen him. 
And Susy whase daddy was Laird o' the ha' ; 
There's lang-tocher'd Nancy maist fetters his 
fancy, 
—But the laddie's dear sel he lo'es dearest 
of a'. 



SONG. 



MY HEART'S IN THE HIGHLANDS.t 

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not 

here ; 
My heart's in the Highlands, a-chasing the 

deer; 
Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe, 
My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go. 

* This air is claimed hy Niei Gow, who calls it his 
lanaeni Tor his brother. The first Iialf-stanza of the 
■ong is old. 

t The fir8t half-stanza is old. 



Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the 

North 
The birth-place of vaiour, the country of 

worth ; 
Wherever I wander, wherever I rove. 
The hills of the Highlands for ever I love. 

Farewell to the mountains high covered with 
snow; 

Farewell to the straths and green valleys be- 
low: 

Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging 
woods ; 

Farewell to the torrents and loud pouring 
floods. 

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not 
here, 

My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the 
deer : 

Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe, 

My heart's in the Highlands, wherever I go. 



SONG.* 

THE RANTIN DOG THE DADDIE OT. 

O WHA my babie-clouts will buy i 
Wha will tent me when I cry ? 
Wha wiU kiss me whare I lie ? 
The rantin dog the daddie o't.— 

Wha will own he did the faut ? 
Wha will buy my groanin-maut? 
Wha will tell me how to ca't .'' 
The rantin dog the daddie o't. 

When I mount the creepie-chair, 
AVha will sit beside me there ? 
Gie me Rob, I seek nae mair. 
The rantin dog the daddie o't. — 

Wha will crack to me my lane .■' 
Wha will mak me fidgin fain .' 
Wha will kiss me o'er again i" 
The rantin dog the daddie o't.— 



SONG. 

I DO CONFESS THOU ART SAE 
FAIR.t 

I DO confess thou art sae fair, 
I wad been o'er the lugs in luve ; 

* I composed this song pretty early in life, and sent 
it to a young girl, a very particular aciiuaintance of 
mine, who was at that time under a cloud. 

Burns' Rcliqiies, p 278. 
tThis song is altered from a poem by Sir Robert Ayton. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



13» 



Had I na found the slightest prayer 

That lips could speak, tliy heart could 
muve. 

I do confess thee sweet, but find 

Thou art sao thriftless o' thy sweets. 

Thy favours are the silly wind 
That kisses ilka th'ng it meets. 

See yonder rose-bud, rich in dew, 

Amang its native briers sae coy 
How sune it tines its scent and hue 

When pu'd and worn a common toy ! 

Sic fate ere lang shall thee betide, 
Tho' thou may gayly bloom a while ; 

Yet sune thou shalt be thrown aside. 
Like ony common weed and vile. 



SONG.* 

Tune — " Craigie-burn Wood."t 

Beyond thee, dearie, beyond thee, dearie. 
And O to be lying beyond tlice, 

sweetly, soundly, weel may he sleep. 
That's laid in the bed beyond thee. 

Sweet closes the evening on Craigie-bum- 
wood. 
And blithly awakens the morrow ; 
But the pride of the spring in tho Craigie- 
burn-wood 
Can yield to me nothing but sorrow. 
Beyond thee, &c. 

I see tho spreading leaves and flowers, 

1 hear the wild birds singing ; 
But pleasure they hae nane for me, 

While care my heart is wringing. 
Beyond thee, &c. 

private secretary to Mary and Anne, queens of Scotland. 
— The poem is to be found in James Watson's Collec- 
tion of Scots Poems, tlie earliest collection printed in 
Scotland.— I think that 1 have improved the simplicity 
of the sentiments, by giving them a Scots dress. 

Bums' Reliqv.es, p. 292. 

• It is remarkable of this place that it is the confine 
of that country where the greatest part of our Lowland 
music (so far as from the title, words, &c. we can lo- 
calize it) has been composed. From Craigie-burn, near 
Moffat, until one reaches the West Highlands, we have 
scarcely one slow air of any antiquity. 

The song was composed on a passion which a Mr. 
Gillespie, a particular friend of mine, had for a Miss 
Lorimer, afterwards a Mis. Whelpdale. The young 
lady was born at Craigie-burn-wood. — The chorus is 
part of an old foolish ballad. 

Bums' Reliques, p. 284. 

♦ The chorus is old. — Another copy of this will be 
founit. ante, p. 101 



I canna tell, I maunna tell, 
1 dare na for your anger ; 

But secret love will break uy heart, 
If I conceal it langer. 

Beyond thee, See, 

I see thee gracefu', straight and tall, 
I see thee sweet and bonnie. 

But oh, what will my torments be, 
If thou refuse thy Johnie ! 
Beyond thee, &c. 

To see thee in anither's arms. 
In love to lie and languish, 

'Twad be my dead, that will be seen. 
My heart wad burst wi' anguish. 
Beyond thee, &c. 

But Jeanie, say thou wilt be mine. 
Say, thou lo'es nane before me ; 

And a' my days o' life to come 
ril gratefully adore thee. 

Beyond thee, Sec. 



SONG. 



YON WILD MOSSY MOUNTAINS. 



Yon wild mossy mountains sae lofty and wide, 
That nurse in their bosom the youtli o' the 

Clyde, 
Where the grouse lead their coveys thro' the 

heather to feed. 
And the shepherd tents his flock as he pipes on 

his reed. 

fVhere the grouse. Sec. 

Not Gowrie's rich valley, nor Perth's suimy 

shores. 
To me hae the charms o' yon wild, mossy 

moors ; 
For there, by a lanely, and sequester'd stream. 
Resides a sweet lassie, my thought and my 

dream. 

Amang thae wild mountains shall still be my 

path. 
Ilk stream foaming down its ain green, narrow 

strath ; 
For there, wi' my lassie, the day lang I rove. 
While o'er us unheeded fly the swift hours o' 

love. 

She is not the fairest, altho' she is fair ; 
C nice education but sma' is her share : 
Her parentage humble as humble can be ; 
But I lo'e the dear lassie because she lo'es 
me. 



140 



BURNS' POEMS. 



To beauty wliat man but niaun yield liim a 

prize, 
In her amour of glances, and blushes, and 

si^'hs ; 
And when wit and refinement hae polished 

lior darts. 
They dazzle our een, as they flie to our hearts. 

But kindness, sweet kindness, in the fond 

sparkling e'o. 
lias lustre outshining tlic diamond to me ; 
And the heart-beating love, as Vm clasp'd in 

lier arms, 
O, these are my lassie's all-conquering charms ! 



SONG. 

WHA IS THAT AT MY BOWER 
DOOR? 

WuA is that at my bower door? 

O wlia is it but Findlay ; 
Then gae your gate yoVo nae be here 1 

Indeed maun I, quo' Findlay. 
What mak ye sae like a thief? 

O come and see, quo' Findlay ; 
Before the morn ye'll work mischief; 

Indeed will 1, quo' Findlay. 

Glf I rise and let you in ? 

Let me in, quo' Findlay ; 
Ye'll keep me waukin wi' your din ; 

Indeed will 1, quo' Findlay, 
In my bower if yo sliould stay ? 

Let me stay, quo" Findlay ; 
I fear yo"ll bide till break o' day ; 

Indeed will I, quo' Findlay. 

Here this night if ye remain, 

ril remain, quo' Findlay ; 
I dread ye'll U-arn the gate again ; 

Indeed will I, quo' Findlay; 
What may pass within tliis bower. 

Let it i)ass, quo' Findlay ; 
Yo maun conceal till your last hour ; 

Indeed will I, quo' Findlay 1 



SONG.=^ 
Tune—" The Weaver and his Shuttle, O." 

My Father was a Farmer upon the Carrick 

border, O 
And carefully lie bred me in decency and 

order, O 

• This song is wild rhapsody, miserably deficient in 
versificnlion, but as the scminients are the genuine leel- 
Inss ot" my lioart, for that rciisun I liave a particular 
pleasure in conning it over. lianis' Reliques, p. 329. 



lie bade me act a manly part, titough I had 

ne'er a farthing, O 
For without an honest manly heart, no man 

was worth regarding, O. 



Then out into the world iny course I did deter 
mine, O 

Tho' to be rich was not my wish, yet to be 
great was charming, O 

My talents they were not the worst ; nor yet 
my education ; O 

Resolv'd was I, at least to try, to mend my situ- 
ation, O. 



In many a way, and vain essay, I courted for- 
tune s favour ; O 

Some cause unseen, still stcpt between, to frus- 
trate each endeavour ; O 

Sometimes by foes I was o'erpower'd ; some- 
times by friends forsaken ; O 

And when my hope wtis at tJie top, I still was 
vvosrt mistaken, O. 



Then sore harass'd, and fir'd at last, with for. 

tune's vain delusion ; O 
I dropt my schemes, like idle dreams, and 

cams to this conclusion ; O 
The past was bad, and the future hid ; its 

good or ill untried ; O 
But the present hour was hi my pow'r, and so 

I would enjoy it, O. 



No help, nor hope, nor view had I ; nor person 
to befriend me ; O 

So I must toil, and sw(uit and broil, and labour 
to sustain me O, 

To plough and sow, to reap and mow, my fa- 
ther bred me early ; O 

For one, he said, to labour bred, was a match 
for fortune fairly, O. 



Thus all obscure, unknown, and poor, tliro' 

life I'm dooin'd to wander, O 
Till down my weary bones I lay in everlasting 

slumber : O 
No view nor care, but shun whate'er might 

breed me pain or sorrow ; O 
I live to-day, as well's 1 may, regardless of to 

morrow, O. 



But cheerful still, T am as well, as a monarch 

in a palace, O 
Tho' fortune's frown still Inmts me down, with 

all her wonted malice ; O 
I make indeed, my daily broad, but ne'er can 

make it farther ; O 
But as daily bread is all 1 need, I do not much 

regard her, O. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



141 



When lometimos by my labour I earn a liltlo 

money, O 
Somo unforeseen misfortune comes generally 

upon mo ; O 
Miscliance, mistake, or by neglect, or my good- 

natur'd folly ; O 
Dut come what will, I've sworn it still, I'll 

ne'er be melancholy, O. 



All you who follow wealth and power with 

unremitting ardour, O 
The more in this you look for bliss, you leave 

your view the farther ; O 
Had yiM tlio wealth Potosi boasts, or nations 

to adoro you, O 
A dioeiful honest-hearted clown I will prefer 

before you, O. 



SONG. 



Tho' cruel fate should bid us part, 
As far's tho pole and line ; 

Her dear idea round my heart 
Should tenderly entwine. 



Tho' moimtains frown and deserts howl, 

And oceans roar between ; 
Yet, dearer llian my deathless soul, 

I still would love my Jean. 



SONG. 



Ae fond kiss and then we sever ; 
Ae farcweel, alas, for ever ! 
Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee, 
WarriniT sighs and groans I'll wage tiico. 
WIio shall say that fortune grieves him 
Wliilo the star of hope she leaves him? 
Me, nae chccrfu' twinkle lights me; 
Dark despair around benights me. 

I'll nn'cr blame my partial fancy, 
Naclhing could resist my Nancy : 
But to see her, was to love her ; 
Love but her, and love for ever. 
Had we never lov'd sao kindly. 
Had we never lov'd sao blindly, 
Never met — or never parted, 
We had ne'er been broken-hearted. 

Fare thee weol, thou first and fairest ! 
Faro liice wecl, tliou host and dearest! 
Tliitic be ilka joy and treasure. 
Peace, enjoyment, love and pleasure I 



Ae fond kiss, and then we sever ; 

Ao farcweel, alas, for ever ! 

Deep in heart-wrung tears I pledge thee, 

Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. 



SONG. 

NOW BANK AN' BRAE ARE 
CLAITH'D IN GREEN 



Now bank an' brae are claith'd in green 

An' scatter'd cowslii)s sweetly spring, 
By Girvan's fairy haunted stream 

The birdies flit on wanton wing. 
To Cassallis' banks when e'ening fa's. 

There wi' my Mary let me flee, 
Tlicre catch her ilka glance of love. 

The bonnie blink o' Mary's e'e 1 

The child wha boasts o' warld's wealth, 

Is aflen laird o' meikle care ; 
But Mary she is a' my ain. 

Ah, fortune canna gie me mair ' 
Then let me range by Cassillis' banka, 

Wi' her the lassie dear to me, 
And catch her ilka glance o' love, 

The bonnie blink o' Mary's e'e ! 



SONG. 



THE BONNIE LAD THAT'S FAR 
AWA. 

O now can I bo blithe and glad, 
Or how can I gang brisk and braw, 

When tho bonnie lad that I lo'e best 
Is o'er the hills and far awa ? 



It's no the frosty winter wind, 

It's no the driving drift and snaw ; 

But ay the tear comes in my e'e. 
To think on him that 's far awa. 



My father pat me frae his door. 

My friends they jiao disown'd nie a' 

But 1 hae anc v/ill tak my part. 
The bonnie lad tliat 's far awa. 

A pair o' gloves he gave to me, 

And Rilk(;n snoods he gave mo twa } 

And i will wear them for his sake. 
The bonnie lad that 's far awa. 



14? 



BURNS' POEMS. 



The weary winter soon will pass, 

And sprintj will deed the birkcn-shaw ; 

And my sweet babie will be born, 
And ho'U come hame tliat e far awa. 



SONG. 



Out over the Forth I look to the north, 

But what is the north and its Highlands to 
me ? 

The south nor the east gie ease to my breast. 
The far foreign land, or the wild rolling sea. 

But I look to the west, when I gae to rest, . 

That happy my dreams and my slumbers 
may be ; 
For far in the west hves he I lo'e best. 

The lad that is dear to my babio and me. 



SONG. 



I'LL AY CA' LN BY YON TOWN. 

I'll ay ca' in by yon town, 

And by yon garden green, again; 

I'll ay ca' in by yon town. 

And see my bonnie Jean again. 

There's nane sail ken, there's nane sail guess, 
What brings nie back the gate again, 

But she, my fairest faithfu' lass, 
And stowlins we sail meet again. 

Shell wander by the aiken tree. 
When trystin-time* draws near again ; 

And when her lovely form I see, 
O haith, she's doubly dear again I 



SONG. 

WHISTLE O'ER THE LAVE O'T. 

First when Maggy was my care, 
Heav'n, I thought, was in her air; 
Now we're married — spier nae mair— 

Whistle o'er the lave o't. — 
Meg was meek, and Meg was mild, 
Bonnie Meg was nature's child — 
■ — Wiser men than nie's boguil'd : 

Whistle o'er the lave o't. 

• TYj/stin-time—The time of appointment. 



How we live, my Meg and me, 
How we love and how we 'groe, 
I care na by how few may see ; 

Whistle o'er the lave o't. — 
What I wish were maggot's meat, 
Dish'd up in her winding sheet, 
I could write — but Meg maun seet — 

Whistle o'er the lave o't. — 



SONG. 

YOUNG JOCKEY. 

Young Jockey was the blitliest lad 

In a' our town or here awa ; 
Fu' blithe he whistled at tlie gaud, 

Fu' hghtly danc'd he in the ha' I 
He roos'd my e'en sae bonnie blue. 

He roos'd my waist sae gently sma ; 
An' ay my heart came to my mou. 

When ne'er a body heard or saw. 

My .Tockey toils upon the plain. 

Thro' wind and wcet, thro' frost and sn&W; 
And o'er the lee I Icuk fu' fain 

When Jockey's owson hameward ca', 
An' ay the night comes round again. 

When in his arms he taks me a' : 
And ay ho vows he'll be my ain 

As lang's he has a breath to draw. 



SONG. 
MTHERSON'S FAREWELL. 
Tune—" M'Pherson's Lament." 

Farewell ye dungeons dark and strong, 

The wretches destinie ! 
M'Pherson's time will not be long. 

On yonder gallows tree. 

Sae ranlingli/, sae iranfonh/, 

Sae daimtinglj/oacd he ; 
He plai/'d a sprins: and dajic^d it round. 

Below the gallows tree. 

Oh. what is death but parting breath ?— 

On mony a bloody plain 
I've dar'd his fiice. and in this place 

I scorn him yet again 1 
Sae rantinglij, Sec. 

Untie these bands from off my hands, 
And bring to me my sword ; 



BURNS' POEMS. 



143 



And Ihovo's no a man in all Scotland, 
But I'll bravo liiin at a word. 
iSae riinliiigli/i &r. 

I've liv'd a life of sturt and strife ; 

I die by treachcrio : 
It burns my heart I must depart 

And not avenged bo. 
Hue rantiiiglj/., kc. 

Now farewell light, thou sunshine bright, 

And all bcneaih the sky 1 
May coward shaine dlstain his name, 

'1 lie wretch tiiat dares n^t die I 
iSrte rantingly^ Sec. 



SONG, 

Here's a bottle and an honest friend! 

What v^'ad ye wish for mair, man.-' 
Wha kens, before his life may end, 

What his share may be of care, man-' 
Then catch the moments as they fly. 

And use them as yo ougiit, man : — 
Believe me, hapi)iiiess is siiy, 

And conies not ay when sought, man. 



SONG. 



Tune — " Braes o' Balquhidder." 



ni kiss Ihee i/et, yet, 

./??i' /'// kiss Ike o'er again, 

An'' ril kiss Ikce yet, yet. 
My bonnie Peggy Alison ! 

Ilk care and fear, when thou art near, 

I ever mair defy them, O ; 
Young kings upon their hansel throne 

Are no sae blest as I am, O I 
ril kiss Ihee, &:c. 

When in my arms, wi' a thy charms, 
I cias]) my countless treasure, O; 

1 seek nac mair o' Heaven to share. 
Than sic a moment's pleasure, O : 
ril kiss thee, Sec. 

And by tny cen, sae bonnie blue, 
I sw(^ar I'm thine for ever, O ;— 

And on thy lips 1 seal my vow, 
Auii break it shall I never, O ! 
rU kiss thee, Sec. 



SONG. 



Tune — " If he bo a Butcher neat and trim." 



On Cessnock banks there lives a lass. 
Could 1 describe her shape and mien; 

The graces of her weelfar'd face, 
And the glancin of her sparklin een. 

She's fresher than the morning dawn 
When rising Plucbus first is seen. 

When dew-drops twinkle o'er the lawnj 
An' she's twa glancin sparkUn een. 

She's stately like yon youthful ash. 
That grows the cowslip braes between, 

And shoots its head above each bush ; 
An' slie's twa glancin sparklin cen. 

She's spotless as the flow'ring thorn 
With tlow'rs so white and leaves so green, 

When [)urest in the dewy morn ; 
An' she's twa glancin sparklin cen. 

Her looks are like the sportive lamb. 
When llow'ry May adorns the scene. 

That w.antons round its bleating dam ; 
\n' she's twa glancin sparklin cen. 

Her hair is like the curling mist 

That shades the mountain-side at e'en, 

Wlien ilow'r-reviving rains are ])ast; 
An' she's twa glancin sparklin cen. 

Her forehead 's like the show'ry bow, 
When shining sunljcams intervene 

And gild the distant mountain's brow; 
An' she's twa glancin sparklin oeii. 

Her voice is like tlie ov'ning thrush 
That sings in Cessnock hanks unseen. 

Wiiile his mate sits nestling in the busn, 
An' she's twa glancin sparkliii een. 

Her lips are like the cherries ripe. 

That simny walls from Boreas screen, 

T)iey tempt the tasle and charm the sight} 
An' she's twa glancin Bj)arklin cen. 



Her teeth are like a floek of sheep. 
With fleeces newly washcn clean. 

That slowly mount the rising stee]) ; 
An' she's twa glancin sparklin cen. 

Herhreatii is like the fragrant breeze 
That a'eiiliy stirs the biossom'd bean, 

AVhon I'ha^bus sinics bc^hiiid the seas; 
An' she's twa glancin sparklin cen. 



144 



BURNS' POEMS. 



But it's not her air, her form, her face, 
Tho' matching beauty's fabled queen, 

But the mind that shines in ev'ry grace. 
An' chiefly in her sparldin een. 



WAE IS MY HEART. 



Wae is my heart, and the tear's in my e'e ; 
LancT, lang joy's been a stranger to me . 
Forsaken and friendless my burden I bear. 
And the sweet voice o' pity ne'er sounds in my 
ear. 



Love, thou hast pleasure ; and deep hae I 

loved ; 
Love, thou hast sorrows ; and sair hae I proved : 
But this bruised heart that now bleeds in my 

breast 
I can feel by its throbbings will soon be at rest. 

O if T were, where happy I hae been ; 

Down by )'on stream and yon bonnie castle 

green : 
For there he is wand'ring and musing on me, 
Wha wad soon dry the tear frae Philhs's e'e. 



SONG, 

Tune — '■'■ Banks of Banna." 



Yestreen I had a pint o' wine, 

A place where body saw na' ; 
Yestreen lay on this breast o" mme 

The gowden locks of Anna. 
The hungry Jew in wilderness 

Rejoicing o'er his manna, 
Was naething to my hiney bliss 

Upon the lips of Anna. 

Ye monarchs, tak the east and west, 

Frae Indus to Savanna ! 
Gie me within my straining grasp 

The melting form of Anna. 
There I'll despise imperial charms. 

An Empress or Sultana, 
While dying raptures in her arms 

I give and take with Anna ! 

Awa thou flaunting god o" day '. 

Awa thou pale Diana ! 
Ilk star gae hide thy twinkling ray 

When I'm to meet my Anna. 



Come, in thy raven plumage, night, 
Sun, moon, and stars withdrawn a' ; 

And bring an angel pen to write 
My transports wi' my Anna I 



SONG.* 

The Deil cam fiddling thro' the town. 
And danc'd awa wi' the exciseman ; 

And ilka wife cry'd, " Auld Mahoun, 
We wish you luck o' the prize man. 

" We'll mak our maul, and brew mir drink, 
TVell dan.ce and sing and rejoice man ; 

And. mony thanks to the muckle black Deil, 
That darw'd awa wi'' the Exciseman. 

" There's threesome reels, and foursome reels. 
There's hornpipes and strathspeys, man ; 

But the ae best dance e'er cam to our Ian', 
Was — the Deil's awa wi' the Exciseman, 
We''ll mak our maut, &c." 



SONG. 

Powers celestial, whose protection 

Ever guards the virtuous fair, 
While in distant climes I wander. 

Let my Mary be your care : 
Let her form sae fair and faultless. 

Fair and fiultless as your own ; 
Let my Mary's kindred spirit, 

Draw your choicest influence down. 

Make the gales you waft aroimd her, 

Soft and peaceful as her breast ; 
Breathing in the breeze that fans her 

Sooth her bosom into rest : 
Guardian angels, O protect her, 

When in distant lands I roam ; 
To realms unknown while fate exiles me, 

Make her bosom still my home.t 



HUNTING SONG. 
I red you beware at the hunting. 

The heather was blooming, the meadows were 

mawn, 
Our lads gacd a-hunting, ae day at the dawn, 

* At a meeting of his brother Excisemen in Dumfries, 
Burns, being called upon for a Song handed these versea 
extempore to the President written on the back of a 
letter. 

t Probably written on Tligliland Mary, on the eve o( 
the Poet's departure to the West Indies. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



145 



O'or moors and o'er mosse!! and mony a glen, 
At length they discovered a bonnie moor-hen. 



/ red you beware at the hunting, young men ; 
J red you beware at the hunting, young men ; 
Tak some on the wing, and some as they spring, 
But cannily steal on the bonnie moor-hen. 



Sweet brushing the dew from the brown hea- 
ther bells, 
Her colours betray'd her on yon mossy fells ; 
Her plumage outlustred the pride o' the spring. 
And O ! as she wantoned gay on the wing. 
I red, &c. 



Auld Phoebus himsel, as he peep'd o'er the 

hill; 
In spite at her plumage he tried his skill ; 
He levell'd his rays where she bask'd on the 

brae — ■ 
His rays were outshone, and but mark'd where 

she lay. 

I red, Sec. 



They hunted the valley, they hunted the hill ; 
The best of our lads wi' the best o' their skill ; 
But still as the fairest she sat in their sight. 
Then, whirr 1 she was over, a mile at a flight. — 

/ red, &c. 



YOUNG PEGGY. 

TouNo Peggy blooms our bonniest lass, 

Her blush is like the morning. 
The rosy dawn, the springing grass, 

With early gems adorning : 
Her eyes outshine the radiant beams 

That gild the passing shower. 
And glitter o'er the crystal streams. 

And cheer each fresh'nino' flower. 



Her lips more than the cherries bright.^ 

A richer die has grac'd them. 
They charm th' admiring gazer's sight, 

And sweetly tempt to taste them : 
Her smile is as the ev'ning mild, 

When feather'd pairs are courting, 
And little lambkins wanton wild, 

In playful bands disporting. 



Were Fortune lovely Peggy's foe, 
Such sweetness would relent her, 

l^s blooming Spring unbends the brow 
Of surly, savage Winter. 



Detraction's eyes no aim can gain 
Her winning powers to lesson : 

And fretful envy grins in vain, 
The poison'd tootli to fasten. 

Ye pow'rs of Honour, Love, and Truth, 

From ev'ry ill defend her ; 
Inspire the highly favoured youth 

The destinies intend her ; 
Still fan the sweet connubial fiamo 

Responsive in each bosom ; 
And bless the dear parental name 

With many a filial blossom.* 



SONG. 



Tune — " The King of France, he rade a Race 

Amang the trees where humming oees 

At buds and flowers were hanging, O 
Auld Caledon drew out her drone. 

And to her pipe was singing ; O 
'Twas pibroch, sang, strathspey, or reels, 

She dirl'd them aff", fu' clearly, O 
When there cam a yell o' foreign squeela, 

That dang her tapsalteerie, O — 

Their capon craws and queer ha ha's, 

They made our lugs grow eerie, O 
The hungry bike did scrape an pike 

Till we were wae and weary ; O — • 
But a royal ghaist wha ance was cas'd 

A prisoner aughteen year awa, 
He fir'd a fiddler in the North 

That dang them tapsalteerie, O 



SONG. 

Tune — " John Anderson my Jo." 

One night as I did wander, 

When corn begins to shoot, 
I sat me down to ponder. 

Upon an auld tree root : 
Auld Aire ran by before me, 

And bicker'd to the seas ; 
A cushat crowded o'er me 

That echoed thro' the braes. 



♦This was one of tlie Poet's earliest conifnvsllions. 
It is copied from a MS. boolc, wliicli lie had before ]i!» 
first publication. 



140 



BURNS' POEMS. 



SONG. 



Tune — " Daintie Davie." 

There was a lad was born at Kyle,* 
But what na day o' what na stylo 
' doubt it's hardly wortli the while 
To be sae nice wi' Robin. 

Robin zca.1 a rorin' Boy, 

Rantin' rovin\ rmitln' rovin' ; 

Robin rvas a rovin'' Boy, 
Rantin^ rovin' Robin. 

Our monarch's hindmost year but ane 
Was five and twenty days begun, 
Twas tiien a blast o' Janwar Win' 
Blew hansel in on Robiii. 



The gossip kcekit in liis loof, 
Quo' sclio wha lives will see the proof, 
This waly boy will be nao coof, 
I think we'll ca' him Robin. 



He'll hae misfortunes great and sma', 
But ay a heart aboon them a' ; 
He'll be a credit till us a', 
We'll a' be proud o' Robin. 

But sure as three times three mak nine, 
I see by ilka score and line, 
Tills chap will dearly like our kin'. 
So leeze me on thee, Robin, 



Guid faith quo' scho I doubt you, Sir, 
Ye gar the lasses * * * * 
But twenty fauts ye may iiae waur 
So blessin's on thee, Robin .' 



Robin teas a roviri Boy, 

Rantin'' roviii\ rantin' rovin* ; 
Robin' was a rorin'' Boy, 

Rantin'' rovin' Robin. 



SONG. 
Tune — " I had a Horse and I had nao tinin.'' 

When first 1 came to Stewart Kyle, 

My mind it was nae steady, 
Where'er 1 gaod, whare'er 1 rade 

A mistress still 1 had ay : 

• Kyle — a district of Ayrshire. 



But when I came roun' by MaucWine tc 

Not dreadin' any body, 
My heart was caught before I thought. 
And by a Mauchline lady. 



SONG. 



Tune—" GaUa Water." 

Altho' my bed were in yon muir, 
Amang the heather, in my plaidie, 

Yet happy, happy would I be 
Had I my dear Montgomerie's Peggy.— 

Wlien o'er the hill beat surly storms, 
And winter nights were dark and rainy 

I'll seek some dell, and m' my arms 
I'd shelter dear Montgomerie's Peggy.—. 

Were I a Baron proud and high, 

And horse and servants waiting ready. 

Then a' 'twad gie o' joy to me. 

The sharin't with Montgomerie's Peggy,— 



SONG. 

O raging fortune's withering blast 

Has laid my leaf full low ! O 
O raging fortune's withering blast 

Has laid my leaf full low ! O. 
My stem was fair, my bud was green 

My blossom sweet did blow ; O 
The dew fell fresh, the sun rose mild, 

And made my branches grow ; O. 
But luckless fortune's northern storms 

Laid a' my blossoms low, O 
But luckless fortune's nortliern stonna 

Laid a' my blossoms low, O. 



SONG. 



PATRIOTIC— iiri/inwAc<i. 

Here's a health to them tliat's awa< 
Here's a health to tliem that's awa; 
And wha wim if. '.i/ish »uid luck to our cause, 
May never guid luck i)c their fa'. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



147 



.'t'f. f,\n3 to be merry and wise, 
It's guid to be honest and true, 
It's guid to support Caledonia's cause, 
And bide by tlie buff and the blue. 

Here's a health to them that's awa, 

Here's a health to them tliat's awa ; 

Here's a health to Charlie,* the cliief o' the clan, 

Altho' that hi« hand be but sma'. 

Alay liberty meet wi' success I 

May prudence protect her frac evil ! 

May tyrants and tyranny tine in the mist, 

And wander their way to the devil ! 

Here's a health to them that's awa. 

Here's a health to them that's awa, 

Here's a health to Tammie,t the Norland lad- 

That lives at the lug o' the law I [die. 

Here's freedom to liim that wad read, 

Here's freedom to him tiiat wad write I 

There's nane ever fear'd that the truth should 

be heard, 
But they wham the truth wad indict. 

Here's a health to them that's awa. 
Here's a health to them that's awa, 
Here's Chieftain M'Leod, a Chieftain worth 

gowd, 
Tho' bred amang mountains o' snaw ! 



SONG. 

THE PLOUGHMAN. 

As I was a-wand'ring ae morning in spring, 
I neard a young Ploughman sae sweetly to 

sing. 
And as he was singin' thir words he did say. 
There's nae life like the Ploughman in the 

month o' sweet May — 

The lav'rock in the morning she'll rise frae her 
nest, [breast, 

And mount to the air wi' the dew on her 

And wi' tho merry Ploughman she'll whistle 
and sing, 

Ard at night she'll return to her nest back 
ai^ain. 



SONG. 



Her flowing locks, tho raven's wmg, 
Adown bur neck and bosom bing ; 

How sv;eet unto lliat breast to cling. 
And round that neck entwine her ! 



•C. Fox 



t Lord Erskine. 



Her lips are roses wat wi' dew, 
O, what a feast, her bonnie mou I 

Her checks a mair celestial hue, 
A crimson still diviner. 



BALLAD. 



To thee, lov'd Nitli, thy gladsome plains, 
Where late wi' careless thought I rang'dj 

Though prest wi' care and sunk in wo, 
To thee I bring a heart unchang'd. 

I love thee, Nith, thy banks and braes, 
Tho' mem'ry there my bosom tear ; 

For there he rov'd that brake my heart, 
Yet to that heart, ah, still how dear 1 



SONG. 



The winter it is past, and the simmer comes at 
last, 

And the small birds sing on every tree ; 
Now every thing is glad, while I am very sad| 

Since my true love is parted from me. 

The rose upon the brier by the waters running 
clear. 
May have charms for the lirmet or the bee ; 
Their little loves are blest, and their little hearta 
at rest, 
But my true love is parted from me. 



GUIDWTFE OF WAUCHOPE-HOUSE 



ROBERT BURNS. 

February^ 1787 

My canty, witty, rhyming ploughman, 
1 hafflins doubt, it is na true man, 
That ye between the stilts were bred, 
Wi' ploughmen school'd, wi' ploughmen fed. 
I doubt it sair, ye've drawn your knowledge 
Either frac grammar-school, or college. 
Guid troth, your saul and body baith 
War' better fed, I'd gie my ailli, 
Than theirs, who sup sour-milk and parritch, 
An' bummil thro' the single caritch, 
Wha ever hoard the ploughman speak. 
Could tell gif Homer was a Greek? 



148 



BURNS' POEMS. 



He'd flee as soon upon a cudgel, 

As got a single line of Virgil. 

An" tlicn sae slee ye crack your jokes 

O' Willie P— t and Charlie F— x. 

Our great men a' sae weel descrive, 

An' how to gar the nation thrive, 

Aue niaist wad swear ye dwalt amang them, 

An' as ye saw them, sae ye sang them. 

Uut be ye ploughman, be ye peer, 

Ye are a fuimy blade, 1 swear ; 

An' though tlie cauld 1 ill can bide. 

Yet twenty miles, an' mair, I'd ride. 

O'er moss, an' muir, an" never grumble, 

Tho' my auld yad shou'd gie a stumble, 

To crack a winter-night wi" thee. 

And hear thy sangs and sonnets slee. 

A guid saut herring, an" a cake, 

\Vr sic a ciiiel, a feast wad make, 

I'd rather scour your reaming yill, 

Or eat o' cheese and bread my fill, 

Than wi' dull lairds on turtle dine, 

An' ferlie at their wit and wine. 

O, gif 1 kenn'd but whare ye baide, 

I'd send to you a mark-d plaid ; 

'Twad baud your shoulders warm and braw, 

An' douse at kirk, or market shaw. 

For south, as weel as north, my lad, 

A' honest Scotclunen lo'e the maud.. 

Right wae that we're sae far frae itlier : 

Yet proud I am to ca' ye brither. 



Your most obedt. 



E. S. 



THE ANS'VVER. 



GUIDWIFE, 

I MtND it weel, in early date, 

\Viien 1 was beardless young, and blate, 

An' first could tliresh the barn ; 
Or liaud a yokin at the pleugh, 
An' tho' forfoughtcn sair eneugh, 

Yet unco proud to learn ; 
When first amang the yellow com 

A man 1 reckon'd was. 
And wi' the lave ilk merry morn 
Could rank my rig and lass. 
Still shearing, and clearuig 
The tither stocked raw, 
Wi' claivei-s, an' haivers, 
Wearing tlie day awa,— 

E 1 then a wish, (T mind its power) 
A vLsh that to my latest hour 
Shall strongly lieave my breast ; 



I That I for poor auld Scotland's saKe, 
Some usefu' plan, or book could make, 

Or sing a sang at least. 
The rough bur-tiiistle, spreading wide 

Among the bearded bear, 
I turn'd my weeding-heuk aside, 
An' spar"d the symbol dear ; 
No nation, no station, 

Rly envy e'er could raise, 
A Scot still, but blot still, 
I knew nae higher praise. 



But still tlie elements o' sang 

In formless jumble, right an" wrang. 

Wild floated in my brain : 
Till on that har'st I said before, 
Rly partner in the merry core. 

She rous'd the forming strain 
I see her yet, the sonsie quean, 

That lighted up her jingle. 
Her witching smile, her pauky e'en 
That gart my heart-strings tingle ; 
1 fired, inspired, 

At ev'ry kindling keek. 
But basiling, and dasliing, 
I feared ay to speak. 



Hale to the set, each guid chiel says, 
Wi' merry dance in winter-days, 
An' we to share in conmion : 
The gust o' joy, the balm of wo. 
The saul o' life, the heav'n below. 

Is rapture-giving woman. 
Ye surly sumphs, who hate the name, 

Be mindfu' o' your mither : 
She, honest woman, may think shame, 
That ye're connected with her. 
Ye're wae men, ye're nae men, 
That slight the lovely dears; 
To shame ye. disclaim j'e. 
Ilk honest birkie swears. 



For you, na bred to bam and byre, 
Wha sweetly tune the Scottish lyre, 

Thanks to you for your line. 
The marled plaid }-e kindly spare, 
By me should gratefully be ware ; 

'Twad please me to the Nine. 
I'd be mair vauntie o' my hap, 

Douse hingin o'er my curple, 
Tlian ony ermine ever lap. 
Or proud imperial purple. 

Fareweel then, lang hale then, 

An" plenty be yoiu" fa : 
May losses and crosses ' 
Ne'er at your hallan ca'. 



Robert Burns. 



March, 1787. 



SONG. 



BURNS' POEMS. 149 

THERE WAS A BONNIE LASS. 



Tune — ^" The tither morn, as I forlorn.' 



Ton wandVing rill, that marks the hill, 
And glances o'er the brae, Sir : 

Shdes by a bower where mony a flower, 
Shades fragrance on the day, Sir. 



There Damon lay, with Sylvia gay : 
To love tliey thought nae crime, Sir ; 

The wild-birds sang, the echoes rang, 
While Damon's heart beat time. Sir. 



SONG. 



As I cam in by our gate-end, 

As day was waxen weary ; 
O wha cam tripping down the street, 

But bonnie Peg, my dearie. 

Her air sae sweet, and shape complete, 
Wi' nae proportion wanting ; 

The queen of love, did never move, 
Wi' motion mair enchanting. 

Wi' linked hands, we took the sands, 

Adown yon winding river. 
And, Oh 1 that hour, an' broomy bower 

Can I forget it ever? 



, POLLY STEWART. 

Tune — ^" Ye're welcome Charlie Stewart." 



O Lovely Polly Stewart, 

O charming Polly Stewart, 
There's ne'er a flower that blooms in May, 

That's half so fair as thou art. 

The flower it blaws, it fades, it fa's. 

And art can ne'er renew it ; 
But worth and truth eternal youth 

Will gie to Polly Stewart. 

May he, whase arms shall fauld thy charms, 

Possess a leal and true heart ; 
To him be given to ken the heaven 

He grasps in Polly Stewart! 
O lovely, kc 



There was a bonnie lass, and a bonnie, bonnio 
lass. 
And she lo'ed her bonnie laddie dear ; 
Till war's loud alarms tore her laddie frae her 
arms, 
Wi' mony a sigh and a tear. 
Over sea, over shore, where the carmons loudly 
roar, 
He still was a stranger to fear ; 
And nocht could him quell, or his bosom assail, 
But the bonnie lass he lo'ed sae dear. 



TIBBIE DUNBAR. 



Tune— "Johnny M'Gill." 



O WILT thou go wi' me, sweet Tibbie Dun- 
bar ; 

wilt thou go wi' me, sweet Tibbie Dunbar; 
Wilt thou ride on a horse, or be drawn in a 

car, 
Or walk by my side, O sweet Tibbie Dunbar? 

1 carena thy daddie, his lands and his money, 
I carena thy l?in, sae high and sae lordly : 
But say thou wilt hae me for better for waur. 
And come in thy coatie, sweet Tibbie Dun- 
bar. 



ROBIN SHURE IN HAIRST. 

Robin shure in hairst 

I shure wi' him, 
Fient a heuk had I, 

Yet I stack by him. 

I gaed up to Dunse, 

To warp a wab o' plaiden, 

At his daddie's yett, 

Wha met me but Robin. 

Was na Robin bauld, 

Tho' 1 was a cotter, 
Play'd me sic a trick 

And me the eller's dochter? 
Robin shure, kc. 

Robin promis'd me 

A' my winter vittle; 
Fient haet he liad but three 

Goose feathers and a whittle. 
Robvr ihure, kc. 



150 



BURNS' POEMS. 



MY LADY'S GOWN THERE'S GAIRS 
UPON'T. 



My lady's gown tliere's gairs upon't. 
And gowden flowers sao rare upon't ; 
But Jenny's jimps and jirkinet, 
My lord tJiiiiks muckle mair upon't. 



My lord a-hunting he is gane, 
But hounds or hawks wi' him are nane. 
By Colin's cottage lies his game, 
If Colin's Jenny bo at hame. 
My lady's goivn, &c. 



My lady's white, my lady's red, 
And kith and kin o' Cassillis' blude. 
But her ten-pund lands o' tocher guid 
Were a' the charms his lordsiiip lo'ed. 
My lady's gown, Sec. 



Out o'er yon moor, out o'er yon moss, 
Whare gor-cocks thro' the heather pass, 
There wons auld Colin's bonnio lass, 
A lily in a wilderness. 
My lady's gown, &c. 

Sae sweetly move her genty limbs. 
Like music notes o' lover's hymns : 
The diamond dew in her een sa^blue, 
Where laughing love sae wanton swims. 
My lady's gown, kc. 



My lady's dink, my lady's drest, 
The flower and fancy o' tlie west; 
But the lassie that a man lo'es best, 
O that's the lass to make him blest. 
My lady's gown. Sec. 



WEE WILLIE GRAY. 



Wee Willie Gray, and his leather wallet; 
Peel a willow-wand to be him boots and 

jacket : 
The rose upon the brier will be him trouse and 

doublet, 
The rose upon the brier will be him trouse and 

doublet. 



Wee Wiflie Gray, and his leather wallet; 
Twice a lily flower will bo in him sark and 

cravat : 
Feathers of a flee wad feather up his bonnet, 
Feathers of a flee wad feather up his bonnet. 



THE NORTHERN LASS 



Tho' cruel fate should bid us pajt 

Far as the pole and line ; 
Her dear idea round my heart 

Should tenderly entwine. 
Tho' mountains rise, and deserts he 

And oceans roar between ; 
Yet dearer than my deathless soul, 

I still would love my Jean. 



COULD AUGHT OF SONG 



CouLn aught of song declare my pains, 

Could artful numbers move thee. 
The muse sliould tell, in labour'd strains, 

O jVIary, how 1 love thee. 
They who but feign a wounded heart, 

May teach the lyre to languish ; 
But what avails the pride of art, 

When wastes the soul with anguish.' 

Then let the sudden bursting sigh 

The heart-felt pang discover ; 
And in the keen, yet tender eye, 

O read th' imploring lover. 
For well I know thy gentle mind 

Disdains art's gay disguising ; 
Beyond what fancy e'er refin'd 

The voice of nature prizing. 



GUID ALE COMES. 



GiTiD ale comes, and guid ale goes, 
Guid ale gars me sell my hose. 

Sell my hose, and pawn my shoon, 
Guid ale keeps my heart aboon. 
J had sax owsen in a pleugh, 
They drew a' wee! enougli, 

1 soll'd them a' just ane by ane ; 
Guid ale keeps my heart aboon. 



Guid ale bauds me bare and busy, 
Gars me moop wi' the servant hizzia. 
Stand i' the stool when I hae done, 
Guid ale keeps my lioart aboon. 
O o;uid ale comes, and gude ale goes. 
Guid ale gars me sell my hose. 
Sell my h.ose, and pawn my shoon; 
Guid ale keeps my heart aboon. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



151 



O LEAVE NOVELS. 



O LEAVE novels, ye Mauchline belles, 

Ye're safe/ at ymir spinning-whccl ; 
Such witcliing booics, are baited hooks 

For rakish rooks, like lloh Mossgiel. 
Your fine Tom Jones and Grandisons, 

Thoy make your youthfid fancies reo , 
They heat your brains, and fire your veins, 

And then you're prey for Rob Mossgiel. 



Beware a tongue that's smoothly hung : 

A heart tiiat warmly seems to feel; 
That feeling heart but acts a part, 

'Tis rakisli art in Rob Mossgiel. 
The frank address, tlie soft caress. 

Are worse than poisoned darts of steel. 
The frank address, and politesse, 

Are all finesse in Rob Mossgiel. 



O AY MY WIFE SHE DANG ME. 



O AY my wife she dang me, 
An' aft my wife she bang'd me ; 
If ye gio a woman a' her will, 
Guid faith she'll soon o'ergang ye. 

On peace and rest my mind was bent, 

And fool I was I marry 'd ; 
But never honest man's intent 

As cursedly miscarry'd. 

«5ome sairie comfort still at last. 
When a' thir days are done, man, 

My pains o' hell on earth is past, 
I'm sure o' bliss aboon, man. 
O ay my wife, &cc. 



THE DEUKS DANG O'ER MY DADDIE. 



The bairns gat out wi' an unco shout. 

The deuks dang o'er my daddie, O I 
The fient ma care, quo' the feirie auld wife, 

He was but a paidlln body, O ! 
He paidles out, and he paidles in. 

An' he paidles late and carlie, O ; 
This seven .ang years I hae lien by his side, 

An' he is but a fusionless carlie, O. 



O had your tonffue, my feirie auld wife, 
O had your longue now, Nansie, O : 

I've seen the day, and sae hae ye, 
Ye wadna been sae donsie, O : 



I've seen the day ye buttcr'd my brose, 
And cuddl'd me late and earlie, O \ 

But downa do's come o'er me now. 
And, Oh, I find it sairly, O ' 



DELIA. 



Fair the face of orient day. 
Fair the tints of op'ning rose; 
But fairer still my Delia dawns. 
More lovely far her beauty blows. 

Sweet the lark's wild-warbled lay, 
Sweet the tinkling rill to hear; 
But, Delia, more delightful still. 
Steal thine accents on mine ear. 

The flower-enamour'd busy bee 
The rosy banquet loves to sip ; 
Sweet the streamlet's lim|)id lapse 
To the sun-brown'd Arab's lip ; 

But, Delia, on thy balmy lij)s 

Let me, no vagrant insect, rove ! 

O let me steal one liquid kiss. 

For Oh ! my soul is parch'd with love ! 



ON A BANK OF FLOWERS 

On a bank of flowers one summer's day. 

For summer lightly dross'd, 
The youthful, blooming Nelly lay. 

With love and sleep oppress'd ; 
When Willy, wand'ring thro' the wood, 

Who for her favour oft had su'd, 
He gaz'd, he wisli'd, he fear'd, he blush'd, 

And trembled where he stood. 

Her closed eyes, like weapons sheath'd. 

Were seal'd in soft repose. 
Her lii)s still as they fragrant breath'd, 

It richer dy'd the rose. 
The springing lilies sweetly press 'd. 

Wild wanton kiss'd her rival breast ; 
He gaz'd, he wish'd, he feard, lie blush'd 

His bosom ill at rest. 

Her robes, light waving in the breeze, 

Her tender limbs embrace. 
Her lovely form, her native ease, 

All harmony and grace. 
Tumultuous tides his jndscs roll, 

A flattering ardent kiss he stole : 
He gaz'd, he wish'd, he fear'd, he^ ush'd, 

And sigh'd his very soul. 



52 



BURNS' POEMS. 



As flics the partrifl^TO from the brake, 

On fear inspired wind's ; 
So Nelly startling, half awake, 

Away alfriji^litoii .springs. 
But Willy follow'il as ho should, 

Ho overtook nor \n the wood. 
Ho vow'd, ho ])ray'd, ho found the maid 

Forjiiviiii'' all and irood. 



EVAN r.ANKS. 

Slow spreads the gloom my soul desires, 
The sun from India's shore retires ; 
To Evan hanks with tcm])crato ray 
Homo of my youth, it leads the day. 
Oh ! banks to mo for ever dear ! 
Oh ! stream whoso murmurs still 1 hear ! 
All, all my hopes of bliss reside, 
Wliere Evan mingles with the Clyde. 

And she, in simple beauty drest, 
Whose imago lives within my breast ; 
Who trombhng heard my parting sigh, 
And long pursued mo with her eye ! 
Does she with Iieart unchang'd as mine. 
Oft in thy vocal bowers recline .'' 
Or whcro yon grot o'erhangs the tide. 
Muse while the Evan socks the Clyde. 

Yo lofty banks that Evan bound ! 
Ye lavish woods that wave around. 
And o'er the stream your shadows throw, 
Which sweetly winds so far below ; 
What secret charm to mem'ry brings. 
All that on Evan's border springs.'' 
Sweet banks ! yo bloom by Mary's side : 
Blest stream ! she views thee haste to Clyde. 

Can all the weallli of India's coast 

Alone for years in absence lost ; 

Return, yo moments of delight. 

With riclicr treasure bless my sight! 

Swift from this desert let mo part, 

And fly to moot a kindred heart ! 

Nor more may aught my steps divide 

From that dear stream which Hows to Clyde. 



THE FIVE CARLINS. 

AN ELECTION BALLAD. 

Tune—" Chevy Chaco." 

There were five Carlins in tiie south. 

They fell upon a srhemc, 
To send a lad to Eon'on town 

To brinsx us tidings hamo. 



Not only bring us tidings hame, 

IJut do our errands IJiero, 
And aiblins gowd and honour baith 

Might be that laddie's share. 

There was Maggie by the banks o' Nith * 

A dame wi' pride enough ; 
And Marjorie o' the monio Loch,t 

A Carlin auld an' tough. 

And blinkin Bess o' Annandale,:}: 
That dwells near Solway side, 

And whisky Joan that took her gill} 
In Galloway so wide. 

And auld black Joan frae Creighton peel, 

O' gipsy kith an' kin. 
Five weightier Carlins were na found 

The south kintra within. 



To send a lad to Lon'on town 

They mot upon a day, 
And monio a Knight and monie a Laird 

That errand fain would gae. 



O ! monie a Knig'ht and monie a Laird 
This errand fam would gae ; 

But nao ane could their fancy please, 
O ! ne'er a ane but twae. 



The first ane was a belted Knight, 

Bred o' a border band. 
An' he wad gae to Lon'on town, 

Might nao man him withstand. 

And he wad do their errands weel, 

And meikle he wad say. 
And ilka ane at Lon'on court 

Wad bid to him guid day. 

Then niest came in a sodger youth, 

And spak wi' modest grace. 
An' ho wad gae to Lon'on town. 

If sao their pleasure was. 

He wad na hccht them courtly gift, 

Nor mciklc speech protend ; 
But he wad hccht an honest heart 

Wad ne'er desert his friend. 

Now whom to choose and whom refuse, 

To strife thac t'arlins fell ; 
For some had gentle folk to ])lease. 

And some wad please thomsel. 

Then out spak mim-mou'd Meg o' Nith, 

An' she spak out wi' pride. 
An' she wail send the sodger youth 

Whatever miglit betide. 



♦Dumfries. t I'OCiimaben. 

^ Kirkcudbright. 



tAnnar. 
Sanquhar. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



152 



Foj the auld cfuidman o' Lon'on court 

She, did not care a [liii, 
But slie wad send the sodger youth 

To greet his eldest son. 

Then up sprang Bess o' Annandalo : 

A deadly aith she's ta'en, 
Tliat she wad vote the border Knight, 

'J'ho' she should vote her lane. 

F')r far off fowls hae feathers fair, 

An' fools o' change are fain : 
But I hac tried the border Knight, 

I'll try him yet again. 

Says auld black Joan frao Crcighton peel, 

A Carlin stout and grim, 
The auld guidman or young guidman: 

For mc may sink or svk'iin I 

For fools may prate o' right and wrang. 
While knaves laugh them to scorn ; 

But the Sodger's friends hae blawn the best 
Sae he shall bear the horn. 

Then whisky Jean spak o'er her drink, 

Ye weel ken kimmers a', 
The auld guidman o' Lon'on court, 

His back's been at the wa'. 

And monie a friend that kiss'd his caup, 

Is now a frammit wight ; 
But it's n'ecr sac wi' wiiisky .lean, 

We'll send the border Knight. 

Then slow raise Majorie o' the Lochs, 

And wrinkled was her brow ; 
Her ancient weed was russet gray. 

Her auld Scots heart was true. 

There's some great folks set light by me, 

I set as light by them ; 
But I will send to Lon'on town 

Wha Ilo'e best at hanio. 

So how this weighty plea will end, 

Nae mortal wight can tell ; 
G-d grant the King and ilka man 

May look weel to liimsel. 



THE LASS THAT MADE THE BED 
TO ME. 

WuF.N January winds were blawing cauld. 

As to the north I bent my way, 
The inirksome night did me cnfauld, 

1 kcnn'd na whare to lod^e till day : 
L3 " ^ 



By my guid luck a lass I met, 
Just in the inic'dle of my care, 

And kindly she did me invite, 
To walk into a chamber fair. 



1 bow'd fu' low unto this maid, 

And thnnk'd her for her courtesie ; 
I bow'd fu' low unto this maid. 

And bade her make a bed for me : 
She made the bed both large and wide, 

Wi' twa white hands she spread it down ; 
She put the cup to her rosy lips, 

And drank, "Young man, now sleep y( 
sound." 



She snatch'd the candle in her hand. 

And frae my chamber wont wi' speed ; 
But I call'd her quickly back again. 

To lay some niair below my head : 
A cod she laid below my head. 

And served me with due respect; 
And to salute her with a kiss, 

1 put my arms about her neck. 



"Hand aff your hands, young man," says she, 

"And diima sae uncivil be; 
Gif ye hae ony love for me, 

O wrang na my virginity !" 
Her hair was like the links o' gowd. 

Her teeth were like the ivory. 
Her checks like lilies dipt in wine, 

The lass that made the bed for mo. 



Her bosom was the driven snaw, 

Twa drifted heaps sac fair to see 
fler limbs the polish'd marble stano, 

The lass that made the bed to me. 
I kiss'd her owre and owre again. 

And ay she wistna what to say ; 
I laid her 'tween mo and the wa' ; 

The lassie thought na lang till day. 



Upon the morrow, when we raise, 

I tliank'd her for her courtesie ; 
But ay she hlush'd, and ay she sigh'd, 

And said, "Alas ! ye've ruin'd me." 
I clasp'd her waist, and kiss'd her syne, 

While the tear stood twinkling in her e't 
I said, " my lassie, dinria cry. 

For ye ay shall mak the bed to me." 



She took her mithcr's Holland sheets, 

And made tiicm a' in sarks to me; 
Blythe and merry may she be. 

The lass that made the bed to mo. 
The bonnie lass made the bod to me. 

The braw lass made the bed to me; 
I'll ne'er forget, till the day that I die, 

The lass that made the bed to mc. 



154 



BURNS' POEMS. 



THE KIRK'S ALARM * 



Orthouox, Orthodox, wha believe in John 
Knox, 
Let me sound an alarm to your conscience ; 
There's a heretic blast, has been blawn in the 
wast, 
That what is no sense must be nonsense. 

Dr. Mac,t Dr. Mac, you should stretch on a 
rack. 

To strike evil doers wi' terror ; 
To join faitli and sense upon ony pretence, 

Is heretic, damnable error. 

Town of Ayr, town of Ayr, it was mad I de- 
clare. 

To meddle wi' mischief a-brewing ;_ 
Provost John is still deaf to the cliurch's relief. 

And orator 13ob | is it's ruin. 

D'rymple mild, ^ D'rymplo mild, tho' your 
lieart's like a child. 
And your life like the now driven snaw. 
Yet that winna save ye, auld Satan must have 

For preaching tliat three s ane and twa. 

Ramble John, H Rumble John, mount the steps 
wi' a f;roan, 
Cry the book is wi' heresy cramm'd ; 
Tlien lug out your ladle, deal brimstone like 
addle 
And roar every note of the damn'd. 

Simper Jaincs,ir Simper James, leave the fair 
Killic dames. 
There's a holier chase in your view ; 
I'll lay on your head, that the pack ye'll soon 
lead, 
For puppies like you there's but few. 

Smget Sawney,** Singet Sawney, are yo herd- 
ing the penny. 

Unconscious what evils await ? 
Wi' a jump, yell, and howl, alarm every soul. 

For the foul thief is just at your gate. 

Daddy Anld,tt Daddy Auld, there's a tod in 
the fauld, 
A tod nieiklc waur than the Clerk ; 
Tho' ye can do little skaith, ye'll bo in at the 
death. 
And gif ye canna bite, ye may bark. 

♦This Poem was written a short time after the pub- 
licaiion of Dr. M'Gill's Kssay. 

t Dr. M'Oill. I R 1 A— k— n. « Mr. D— m— le. 

II Mr. R— ss— 11. H Mr. M'K— y. ** Mr. M y. 

tT Mr. A— d. 



Davie Bluster,* Davie Bluster, if for a saint yo 
do muster, 
The corps is no nice of recruits : 
Yet to worth let's bo just, royal blood ye migh 
boast, 
If the ass was tho king of the brut e&. 

Jamie Groose,t Jamie Goose, ye hacmad'^bat 
toom roose, 
In hunting the wicked Lieutenant; 
But the Doctor's your mark, for tlie L — d's 
haly ark, 
He has cooper'd and caw'd a wrang pin in't. 

Poet Wilhe,:!: Poet Willie, gie the Doctoi a 

volley, 
Wi' your liberty's chain and your wit ; 
O'er Pegasus's side ye ncer laid a stride. 
Ye but smelt, man, the place where he s — t. 

Andro Gouk,^ Andro Gouk, ye may slander 
the book. 
And the book nanc the waur let mo tell ye ! 
Ye are rich, and look big, but lay by hat and 
wig, 
And ye'll hac a calf's head o' sma' value. 

Barr Stcenie, || Barr Steenic, what mean ye ' 
what mean ye .' 

If ye'll meddle nae mair wi' tho matter. 
Ye may hae some pretence to bavins and sense, 

Wi' the people wha ken ye nae better. 

Irvine Side,ir Irvine Side, wi' your turkey-cock 

j)ride. 

Of manhood but sma' is your share ; 

Ye've the figure, 'tis true, even your faes will 

allow, [mair. 

And your friends they dare grant you nae 

Muirland Jock,** Muirland Jock, when tho 
L— d makes a rock 

To crush conunon sense for her sins, [fit 
If ill manners were wit, tlicre's no mortal so 

To confound the poor Doctor at ance. 

Holy Will,tt Holy Will, there was wit i' your 
skull. 

When ye pilfer'd the alms o' the poor ; 
The timmcr is scant, when ye'rc ta'en for a sant, 

Wha should swing in a rape for an hour. 

Calvin's sons, Calvin's sons, seize your sp 'ritual 
guns. 

Ammunition you never can need ; [enough, 
Your hearts ar« the stuff, will be powther 

And your skulls are storehouses o' lead 

• Mr. G 1 of 0—1— e. t Mr. Y— g of C— n— k 

t Mr. P— b— s of A— r. { Dr A. M— II. 

II Mr. S n Y g of B r. IT Mr. S b 

of G n. ** Mr. S d. ft An Elder in M— -• 



BURNS' POEMS. 



155 



Pop Burns, Poet Burns, wi' your oriest-skelp- 
li^ turns, 

Why desert ye your auld native shiro ? 
1 oar muse is a gipaie, e'en tho' she were tipsie, 

She cou'd cs.' us nae waur tlian we are. 



THE TWA HERDS 



O a' ye pious godly flocks, 
Well fed on pastures orthodox, 
Wha now will keep you frae the fox, 

Or worrying tykes. 
Or wha will tent the waifs and crocks, 

About the dykes ? 



The twa best herds in a' the wast. 
That e'er gae gospel horn a blast. 
These five and twenty summers past, 

O ; dool to tell, 
£Iae had a bitter black out-cast, 

Atween themsel. 



O, M y, man, and wordy R 11, 

Kow could you raise so vile a bustle, 
Ye"ll see how new-light herds will whistle, 

And think it fine ! 
The Lord's cause ne'er gat sic a twistle, 
Sin' I hae min\ 



O, Sirs ! whae'er wad hae expeckit. 
Tour duty ye wad sae negleckit, 
Ye wha were ne'er by lairds respeckit, 

To wear the plaid, 
But by the brutes themselves eleckit. 

To be their guide. 

What flock wi' M y's flock could rank, 

Sae hale and hearty every shank, 
Nae poison'd soor Armiman stank, 

He let them taste, 
frae Calvin's well, ay clear they drank, 

O sic a feast ! 



The thummart, wil'-cat, brock and tod, 
Wcel kenn'd his voice thro' a' the wood. 
He smell'd their illca hole and road, 

Baith out and in. 
And weel he lik'd to shed their bluid, 

And sell their skin. 



■'Vhat herd like R 11 tell'd his tale? 

His V oice was heard thro' muir and dale. 
He kenn'd the Lord s sheep ilka tail, 
t)'er a' the height, 
And saw gin they were siok cr hale. 
At the first sight 



He fine a mangy sheep could scrob, 
Or nobly fling the gospel club. 
And new-light herds could nicely drub, 

Or pay their skin. 
Could shake them o'er the burning dub ; 

Or heave tliem in. 



Sic twa — O ! do I live to seo't^-. 
Sic famous twa should disagreet. 
An' naniea, like villain, hypocrite. 

Ilk ither gi'en, 
Wliile new-light herds wi' laughin spite, 

Say neither's lien' ! 



A' ye wha tent the gospel fauld, 

There's D n, deep, and P s, shaul. 

But chiefly thou, apostle A — d, 

We trust in thee, 
That thou wilt work them, hot and cauld. 

Till they agree. 



Consider, Sirs, how we're beset. 
There's scarce a new herd that wo get, 
But comes frae 'mang that cursed set, 

I winna name, 
I hope frae heav'n to see them yet 

In fiery flame. 



D e has been lang our fae, 

M' 11 has wrought us meikle wae, 

And that curs'd rascal ca'd M' c. 

And baith the S s, 

That aft hae made us black and blae, 

Wi' vengefu' paws. 



Auld W w lang has hatch'd mischiefj 

We thought ay death wad bring relief, 
But he has gotten, to our grief, 

Ane to succeed him, 
A chiel whall soundly buff"our beef ; 

I meikle dread him. 



And mony a ane that I could tell, 
Wha fain would openly rebel, 
Forby turn-coats amang oursel. 

There S ^h for ane, 

I doubt he's but a gray nick quill, 

And that ye'll fin'. 



O ! a' ye flocks, o'er a' the hills, 
By mosses, meadows, moors and fells, 
Come join your counsel and your skills, 

To cowe the lairds, 
And get the brutes the power themselves, 

To choose their herds. 



Then Orthodoxy yet may prance, 
And Learning in a woody dance. 



156 



BURNS' POEMS. 



And that fell cur ca'd Common Sense, 
Tliat bites sae sair, 

Be banish'd o^er tlie sea to France : 

Let him bark thjre. 



Then Shaw's and DVympIe's eloquence, 

M' 'll's close nervous excellence, 

M'Q 's patlietic manly sense, 

And guid M' -h 

Wi' S th, wha thro' the heart can glance, 

May a' pack afF. 



EPISTLE FROM A TAYLOR. 

TO 

ROBERT BURNS. 



What waefu' news is this I hear, 
Frae greeting I can scarce forbear. 
Folks tell me, ye're gawn all' this year. 

Out o'er the sea. 
And lasses wham ye lo'e sae dear 

Will greet for thee. 

Weel wad I like war ye to stay 
But, Robin, since ye will away, 
I hae a word yet mair to say, 

And maybe twa ; 
May he protect us night an' day. 

That made us a'. 



Whaur thou art gaun, keep mind frae me, 
Seek him to bear thee conipanie. 
And, Robin, wlian ye come to die, 

Ye'U won aboon. 
An' Uve at peace an' unity 

Ayont the moon. 

Some tell me, R.ab, ye dinna fear 
To get a wean, an' curse an' swear, 
I'm unco wae, my lad, to hear 

O' sic a trade, 
Cou'd I persuade ye to forbear, 

I wad be glad. 



Fu' weel ye ken ye'll gang to hell-, 
Gin ye persist in doing ill — 
Waes me : ye're hurlin down the hill 

Witliouten dread. 
An' ye'l' get leave to swear your fill 

After ye're dead. 

There walth o' women yell get near, 
But gettin weans ye will forbear, 



Ye'll never say, my bonnie dear 

Come, gie's a kiss — • 

Nae kissing there — ^ye'll grin an' sneer, 
An' ither hiss, 



O Rab ! lay by thy foolish tricks, 
An' steer nae mair the female sex. 
Or some day ye'll come through the pricks, 

An' that ye'll see ; 
Ye'll find hard living wi' Auld Nicks ; 

I'm wao for thee. 



But what's this comes wi' sic a knell, 
Amaist as loud as ony bell? 
While it does mak my conscience tell 

Me what is true, 
I'm but a ragget cowt mysel, 

Owre sib to you ! 

We're owre like those wha think it fit, 
To stuff their noddles fu' o' wit. 
An' yet content in darkness sit, 

Wha shun the light, 
To let thern see down to the pit. 

That lang, dark night. 

But farewell, Rab, I maun awa', 
May he that made us keep us a'. 
For that would be adreadfu' fa' 

And hurt us sair. 
Lad, ye wad never mend ava, 

Sae, Rab, tak care. 



THE ANSWER. 



h, 



What ails ye now, ye lousy b- 
To thresh my back at sic a pitch i 
Losh man ! hae mercy wi' your natch. 

Your bodkin s bauld, 
I did na suffer ha'f sae much 

Fra Daddie Auld. 

What tho' at times when I grow crouse, 
I gie their wames a random pouse. 
Is that enough for j'ou to souse 

Your servant sae? 
Gae mind your seam, ye prick the louse, 
An' jag the flae. 



King David o' poetic brief. 
Wrought 'mang the lasses sic mischief 
As filfd his after life wi' grief 

An' bloody rants. 
An' yet he's rank'd amang the chief 

O' lang syne saunla. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



167 



And maybe, Tam, for a' my cants, 
My wicked rliymes, an' drucken rants, 
I'll gie auld cloven Clouty's haunts, 

An unco slip yet, 
An' snugly sit amang the saunts 

At Davie's hip yet. 

But feffs, the Session says I maun 
Gae fa' upo' anither plan, 
Than garran lassies cowp the cran 

Clean heels owre body. 
And sairly thole their mither's ban, 

Afore tlie howdy. 



This leads me on, to tell for sport, 
How I did with the Session sort — 
Auld Clinkum at the Inner port 

Cry'd three times, " Robhi ! 
Come hither lad, an answer fort't, 

Ye're blam'd for jobbin." 



Wi' pinch I put a Sunday's face on, 
An' snoov'd awa' before the Session— 
I made an open, fair confession, 

I scom'd to lie : 
An' syne Mess John, beyond expression. 

Fell foul o' me. 



A fornicator lown he call'd me, 
An' said my fau't frae bliss expell'd me ; 
I own'd the tale was true he tell'd me, 

" But what the matter?" 
Quo' 1, " I fear unless ye geld me, 

I'll ne'er be better." 



" Geld you," quo' he, " and what for no ! 
If that your right hand, leg or toe. 
Should ever prove your si)'ritual foe. 

You shou'd remember 
To cut it aff, an' what for no 

Your dearest member ?" 



'• Na, na," quo' I, " I'm no for that. 
Gelding's nae better tlian 'tis ca't, 
I'd rather suffer for my fau't, 

A hearty flewit, 
As sair owre hip as ye can draw't ! 

Tho' I should rue it. 



Or gm yc like to end the bother, 
To please tis a', I've just ae ither, 
When next wi' yon lass I forgather 

Whatever betide it, 
I'll frankly gie hcr't a' thngither. 

An' let lier guide it." 



But, Sir, this plcas'd them warst ava. 
An' therefore, Tam, wlien that I saw. 



I said, " Guid night," and cam awa', 

And left the Session ; 

I saw they were resolved a' 

On my oppression. 



LETTER TO JOHN GOUDIE, 

KILMARNOCK, 
ON THE PUBLICATION OF HIS ESSAYS. 

O GouDiE ! terror o' the Whigs, 
Dread o' black coats and rev'rend wigs, 
Soor Bigotry, on her last legs, 

Girnin looks back, 
Wishin the ten Egyptian plagues 

Wad seize you quick. 

Poor gapin, glowrin Superstion, 
Waes me ! she's in a sad condition ; 
Fy, bring Black Jock, her state physician. 

To see her w— ter; 
Alas ! there's ground o' great suspicion 

She'll ne'er get better. 

Auld Orthodoxy lang did grapple 
But now she's got an unco ripple. 
Haste, gie her name up i' the chapel, 

Nigh unto death ; 
See how she fetches at the thrapple. 

An' gasps for breath. 

Enthusiasm 's past redemption, 
Gaen in a galloping consumption. 
Not a' the quacks wi' a' their gumption. 
Will ever mend her. 
Her feeble pulse gies strong presumption. 

Death soon will end her. 

'Tis you and Taylor* are the chief, 
Wha are to blame for this mischief; 
But gin the L — d's ain folks gat leave, 
A toom tar barrel 
And twa red peats wad send relief, 

An' end the quarrel. 



LETTER TO J — S T T GL— NC— R. 

Auld comrade dear and britber sinner, 
How 's a' the folk about Gl — nc — r ; 
How do you this blae eastlin wind. 
That 's like to blaw a body blind : 
For me my faculties are frozen, 
My dearest member nearly dozen'd : 

* Dr. Taylor of Norwich. 



1^ 

I've sent you here by Johnie Simpson, 
Twa sage philosophers to glimpse on; 
Smith, wi' his sympathetic feeling, 
An' Reid, to common sense appealing. 
Philosophers have fought an' wrangled, 
An' meikle Greek an' Latin mangled, 
Till wi' their logic jargon tir'd. 
An' in the depth of science mir'd. 
To common sense they now appeal, 
What wives an' wabsters see an' feel ; 
But, hark ye, friend, I charge you strictly. 
Peruse them an' return them quickly ; 
For now Fm grown sae cursed douse, 
I pray an' ponder butt the house. 
My shins, my lane, I there sit roastin. 
Perusing Bunyan, Brown, and Boston ; 
Till by an' by, if 1 hand on, 
I'll grunt a real Gospel groan : 
Already I begin to try it. 
To cast my een up like a pyet, 
When by the gun she tumbles o'er, 
Flutt'ring an' gasping in her gore ; 
Sae shortly you shall see me bright, 
A burning an' a shining light. 

My heart-warm love to guid auld Glen, 
The ace an' wale of honest men ; 
When bending down with auld gray hairs, 
Beneath the load of years and cares, 
May ho who made him still support him. 
An' views beyond the grave comfort him. 
His worthy fam'ly far and near, 
God bless them a' wi' grace and gear. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



ON THE DEATH OP 

SIR JAMES HUNTER BLAIR. 

The lamp of day with ill-presaging glare. 
Dim, cloudy, sunk beneath the western 
wave ; [air, 

Th' inconstant blast howl'd thro' the darkening 
And hollow whistled in the rocky cave. 

Lone as I wander'd by each cliff and dell. 
Once the lov'd haunts of Scotia's royal 
train ;* [well,t 

Or mus'd where limpid streams, once hallow'd, 
Or mouldVing ruins mark the sacred fane.:}: 

• The King's Park, at Holyrood-house. 

t St. Aathony'B Well. t St- Anthony's Chapel. 



Th' increasing blast roar'd round the beetling 

rocks, [sky» 

The clouds swift-wing'd flew o'er the starry 

The groaning trees untimely shed their locks. 

And shooting meteors caught the startling 

eye. 

The paly moon rose in the livid east, 

And 'mong the cliffs disclos'd a stately form, 

In weeds of wo that frantic beat her breast, 
And mix'd her wailings with the raving 
storm. 

Wild to my heart the filial pulses glow, 

'Twas Caledonia's trophied shield I view'd : 

Her form majestic droop'd in pensive wo. 
The lightning of her eye in tears imbued. 

Revers'd that spear, redoubtable in war ; 

Reclin'd that banner, erst in fields unfurl'd. 
That like a deathful meteor gleam'd afar. 

And brav'd the mighty monarchs of the 
world. — 

" My patriot son fills an untimely grave !" 

With accents wild and lifted arms she cried ; 
" Low hes the hand that oft was stretch'd to 
save. 
Low lies the heart that swell'd with honest 
pride ! 

" A weeping country joins a widow's tears. 
The helpless poor mix with the orphan's cry; 

The drooping arts surround their patron's bier 
And grateful science heaves the heartfelt 
sigh. — 

" I saw my sons resume their ancient fire ; 

I saw fair Freedom's blossoms richly blow ; 
But ah ! how hope is born but to expire ! 

Relentless fate has laid tliis guardian low.— 

" My patriot falls, but shall he lie unsung, 
While empty greatness saves a worthless 
name ! 

No ; every muse shall join her tuneful tongue, 
And future ages hear his growing fame. 

" And I will join a mother's tender cares, 
Thro' future times to make his \'irtues last, 

That distant years may boast of other Blairs"— 
She said, and vani&h'd with the sweeping 
blast. 



WMM 



A CANTATA. 



RECITATIVO. 



When lyart leaves bestrew the yird, 
Or, wavering like the bauckie* bird, 

Bedim cauld Boreas' blast : 
When hailstanes drive wi' bitter skyte, 
And infant frosts begin to bite, 

In hoary cranreugh drest ; 
Ae night at e'en, a merry core 

O' randie^gangrel bodies, 
In Poosie-Nansie's held the splore, 
To drink their ora duddies : 
Wr quaffing and laughing, 

Tkey ranted and they sang ; 
Wi' jumping and thumping 
The vera girdle rang. 



First niest the fire, in auld red rags, 
Ane sa*, weel brac'd wi' mealy bags, 

And knapsack a' in order; 
His doxy lay within his arm, 
Wi' usquebae and blankets warm, 

She blinket on her sodger; 
And aye he gies the tousie drab 

The tither sktilpin kiss, 
VVhile she held up her greedy gab, 
Just like an a'mous dish ; 

Ilk smack still, did crack still, 

Just like a cadger's whup, 
Then staggering, and swaggering. 
He roar'd this ditty up — 



Tune—" Soldier's Joy." 

I AM a son of Mars, who have been in many 

wars. 
And show my cuts and scars wherever I come ; 
This here was for a wench, and that other in 

a trench. 
When welcoming the French at the sound of 

the drum. Lai de daudte, Sec, 

• The old Scottisli name for the Bat. 



My 'prenticeship T past where my leader breath'd 

his last. 
When the bloody die was cast on the heights 

of Abrarn ; 
I serv'd out my trade when the gallant game 

was play'd. 
And the Moro low was laid at the sound of the 

drum. Lai de dandle, kc. 

I lastly was with Curtis, among the floating 
batt'ries, [hjnb : 

And there I left for witness an arm and a 

Yet let my country need me, with Elliot to 
head me, 

I'd clatter on my stumps at the sound of the 
drum. Lai de daudle, &cc. 

And now, tho' I must beg, with a wooden arm 

and leg. 
And many a tatter'd rag hanging over my bum, 
I'm as happy with my wallet, my bottle, and 

my callet, 
As when I us'd in scarlet to follow the drum. 
Lai de dandle, kc. 

What tho' with hoary locks, I must stand tho 

windy shocks. 
Beneath the woods and rocks, oftentimes for 

a home ; 
When the tother bag I sell, and the tother 

bottle tell, 
I could meet a troop of li-ll at the sound of 

the drum. 

RECITATIVO. 

He ended ; and the kebars sheuk 

A boon the chorus roar; 
While frighted rattans backward leuk, 

And seek the benmost bore : 

A fairy fiddler frae the neuk, 

He skirl'd out encore I 
But up arose the martial's chuck, 

And laid the loud uproar. 

AIR. 

Tune—" Soldier Laddie." 

I ONCE was a maid, tho' I caimot tell when, 
And still iny delight is in proper young men} 



160 



BURNS' POEMS. 



Some one of a troop of dragoons was my dad- 
die, 
No wonder I'm fond of a sodger laddie. 

i>i'/ig, Lai de lal, &c. 



The first of my lovers was a swag-gering blade, 
To rattle tlie thundering drum was his trade ; 
His leg was so tight, and his cheek was so 

ruddy, 
Transported 1 was with iny sodger laddie. 
6'i7i";, Lai de lal. Sec. 



But the goodly old chaplain left him in the 

lurch, 
So the sword I forsook for the sake of the 

cliurch. 
He ventur'd the soul, I risked the body, 
'Twas then I prov'd false to my sodger laddie. 
.Sing-, Lai de lal. Sec. 



Full soon I grew sick of the sanctified- sot, 
The regiment at large for a husband I got ; 
From the gilded spontoon to the fife I was 

ready, 
I asked no more but a sodger laddie. 

Sing, Lal, de lal. Sec. 

But the peace it reduc'd me to beg in despair, 
Till I met my old boy at a Cunningham fair, 
His rags regimental they fluttered sae gaudy, 
My heart it rejoic'd at my sodger laddie. 

Sing, Lal de lal, Sec. 



And now I have liv'd — I know not how long, 

And still I can join in a cup or a song ; 

but whilst with both hands I can hold the 

glass steady. 
Here's to thee, my hero, my sodger laddie. 
Sing, Lal, de lal. Sec. 



RECITATIVO. 

Poor Merry Andrew, in the neult, 

Sat guzzling wi' a tinkler hizzie ; 
Thev mind't na what the chorus took. 

Between themselves they were sao bizzy; 
At length, wi' drink and courting dizzy, 

He stoiter'd up and made a face ; 
Then turn'd and laid a smack on Grizzy, 

Syne tun'd his pipes wi' grave grimace. 



Tune— " Auld Sir Symon." 

Sir Wisdom's a fool when he's fou. 
Sir Knave is a fool in a session ; 

He's there but a 'prentice 1 trow, 
Rut I am a fool by profession. 



My grannie she bought me a bcuk, 
And 1 held awa to the school ; 

I fear I my talent inisteuk ; 
But what will ye hae of a fool.' 

For drink I would venture my neck ; 

A hizzie'sthe half o' my craft; 
But what could ye other expect 

Of ane that's avowedly daft. 

I ance was ty'd up like a stirk, 

For civilly swearing and quaffing; 

I ance was abus'd i' the kirk, 
For towzling a lass i' my daffin. 

Poor Andrew that tumbles for sport, 
Let naebody name wi' a jeer ; 

There's ev'n I'm tauld i' the court, 
A tumbler ca'd the Premier. 

Observ'd ye, yon reverend lad 
Maks faces to tickle the mob ; 

He rails at our mountebank squad, 
It 's rivalship just i' the job. 

And now my conclusion Fll tell, 
For faith Fm confoundedly dry. 

The chiel that 's a fool for himsel' 
Gude L — d, is far dafter than I. 

RECITATIVO. 

Then niest outspak a raucle carlin, 
Wha kent fu' weel to deck the sterlin. 
For monie a pursie she had hooked. 
And had in monie a well been ducket; 
Her dove had been a Highland laddie, 
But weary fa' the waefu' woodie ! 
Wi' sighs and sabs, she thus began 
To wail her braw John Highlandman. 



Tune — ^" O an' ye were dead guidman.' 

A HIGHLAND lad mv love was born, 
The Lawlan' laws he held in scorn ; 
But he still was faithfu' to his clan. 
My gallant, braw John Highlandman. 



Sing, hey, my braw John Highlandman , 
Sing^ Jio, my braw John Highlandman; 
There^s not a lad in all Ike lajC 
Was match for my John Highlandman. 

With his philibeg and tartan plaid, 
And guid claymore down by liis side, 
The ladies' hearts he did trepan, 
My gallant, braw John Highlandman. 

Sing, hey. Sec. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



1£1 



We ranjred a' from Tweed to Spey, 
And liv'd like lords and ladies gay; 
For a Lallan face he feared nane, 
My gallant, braw Jolin Highlandman. 
Hiii!^, key, &c. 

They banish'd him beyond the sea, 
But ere the bud was on the tree, 
Adown my cheeks the pearls ran, 
Embracing my John HiglJandman. 

Singy hey, &c. 

But oh ! they catch 'd him at the last, 
And bound him in a dungeon fast ; 
My curse upon them every one. 
They've hang'd my braw John Highlandman. 
Sing, hey. Sec. 

And now a widow, I must mourn 
The pleasures that will ne'er return ; 
No comfort but a hearty can. 
When I tliink on John Highlandman. 

Sing, hey. Sec. 



RECITATIVO. 



A pigmy Scraper wi' his fiddle, 

Wha us'd at trysts and fairs to driddle, 

Her strappin limb and gaucy middle 

(He reached nae higher,) 
Had hol't Ws heartie like a riddle, 

And blawn't on fire. 

Wi' hand on haunch, and upward e'e, 
He croon'd his gamut ane, twa, three, 
Then, in an Arioso key. 

The wee Apollo 
Set aff, wi' Allegretto glee. 

His giga solo. 



Tune — ^" Whistle o'er the lave o't, 

Let me ryke up to dight that tear. 
And go wi' me and be my dear, 
And then your every care and fear 
May vvliistle o'er the lave o't. 



/ am a ^fiddler to my trade. 
And a' Ihe times that e'er I play'' d 
The sweetest still to wife or matd. 
Was whistle o^er the lave o'l. 

At kirns and weddings we'se be there, 
And Oh ! sae nicely's we will fare ; 
V\ e'U bouse about, till Daddic Care 
Sings whistle o'er the lave o't. 

/ am. See. 
M 



Sae merrily's the banes well pyke, 
And sun oursels about the dyke. 
And at our leisure when wo like, 
We'll wliistle o'er the lave o't. 

/ am. See. 

But bless me wi' your heav'n o' charms, 
And while I kittle hair on thairms, 
Hunger, cauld, and a' sic harms. 
May whistle o'er the lave o't. 

/ am. Sec. 



RECITATIVO. 

Her charms had struck a sturdy Caird 

As weel as poor Gut-scraper ; 
He taks the fiddler by the beard, 

And draws a roosty rapier — 
He swoor, by a' was swearing worth, 

To spit him like a pliver. 
Unless he wad from that time forth 

Relinquish her for ever. 

Wi' ghastly e'e, poor tweedle-dee 

Upon his hunkers bended. 
And pray'd for grace, wi' ruefu' face, 

And sae the quarrel ended. 
But tho' ills little heart did grieve 

When round the tinkler prest her, 
He feign'd to snirtle in his sleeve, 

When thus tlie Caird address'd her ; 



Tune—" Clout the Cauldron." 



My bonny lass, I work in brass, 

A tinkler is my station ; 
I've travell'd round all Christian ground 

In tliis my occupation ; 
I've taen the gold, I've been enroU'd 

In many a noble squadron ; 
But vain they search'd, when off I march'd 

To go and clout the cauldron. 

Fve taen the gold. Sec. 



Despise that shrimp, that wither'd imp, 

Wi' a' his noise and caprin, 
And tak a share wi' those that bear 

The budget and the apron ; 
And by that stowp, my faith and houp. 

And by that dear Kilbadgie,* 
If e'er yo want, or meet wi' scant, 

May I ne'er wat my craigie. 

And by itiat sioup. See, 



• A peculiar sort of Whisky, so called ; o great fa. 
Tourite willi Poosie Nausie's clubs. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



RECITATIVO. 



The Caird prevaird — th' unblushing fair 

In his embraces sunk, 
Partly wi' love o'ercoine sac Aiir, 

And i>arUy sho was drunk. 
Sir Violiiio, will), an air 

That sliow'd a man o' spunk, 
Wisird unison between the pair. 

And made tlio bottle cluidc 

To their health that night. 

But hurchin Cupid shot a shaft. 

That play'd a dame a shavic, 
The fiddler rak\l her fore and aft, 

Behint the chicken cavie. 
Her lord, a wi^ht o' lloinor's craft, 

Tiio' limping wi' the siiavie, 
He hirpl'd up, and lap like daft, 

And shor'd them Dainty Davie 

O boot that night. 

He was a caro-defying blade 

As ever Bacchus listed, 
Tho' Fortune sairupon him laid. 

His heart she ever miss'd it. 
He had nae wish, but — to be glad. 

Nor wmt — but when he thirsted ; 
He haled nought hut — to be sad, 

And thus tlio Muse suggested 

His sang that night. 



Tune—" For a' that, and a' that." 

I AM a bard of no regard, 
Wi' gentlefolks, and a' that : 

But Homer-like, the glowran byke, 
Frae town to town 1 draw that. 



For a' thaU and a' thaU 

And twice as meikWs a' that ; 

Tve lost but «?ie, I've twn bthin\ 
Fve ivife enough, for a' that. 

I never drank the Muses' stank, 
Castalia's burn, and a' that ; 

But there it streams, and richly reams. 
My Helicon 1 ca' that. 

For a' that. Sec. 

Groat love I bear to a' the fair. 
Their humble slave, and a' that; 

But lordly will, I hold it still 
A mortal sin to thraw tliat. 

For a' that, &e. 

In raptures sweet, this hour wo meet, 
Wi' mutual love, and a' that; 

But for how lang tho Hie may stang, 
Lot inclination law that. 

For a' that, &e. 



Their tricks and craft liao put me daft, 
They've ta'en me in, and a' that ; 

But clear your decks, and " Here's the sex !" 
1 like the jads for a' that. 

For a' (hat, and o' that, 

And twice as mcikle's «' that. 

My dearest bluid, to do /hem i^-iiid, 
Theyh-e ivelconie till' I, for a that. 

RECITATIVO. 

So sung tho bard — and Nansio's wa's 
Shook with a thunder of ajjplause, 

Re-echo'd from each mouth ; 
They toom'd their pocks, and pawn'd their 

duds, 
They scarcely left to co'er their fuds. 

To quench their lowan drouth. 

Then owre a^ain, tlie jovial thrang, 

The poet did request. 
To lowse his pack, and wale a sang, 
A baOad o' the best ; 
He, rising, rejoicing. 

Between his twa Deborahs, 
Looks round him, and found tliem 
Impatient for the chorus. 



Tune — " Jolly Mortals, fill your Glaflscs." 

See the smoking bowl before us, 
Mark our jovial ragged ring ; 

Round and round take up tho choruSf 
And in raptures let us sing : 



A Jig for those by laio protected! 

Liberty's a glorious feast ! 
Courts for cowards were erected. 

Churches built to phase the priest. 

What is title ? What is treasure ? 

What is reputation's care? 
If we lead a life of pleasure, 

'Tis no matter, how or where ! 
A Jig, Sec. 

With the ready trick and fablo, 
Roun.d we wander all the day; 

And at night, in barn or stable, 
Hug our doxies on the hay. 
A Jig, &:e. 

Does the train-attended carriage 
Thro' the country lighter rove? 

Does the sober bed of marriage 
Witness brighter scenes of love? 
A Jig, kc. 



BURNS' POEMS. 



163 



iAfe la all a vanoruni. 

We regard not liow it goes ; 
Let llioiii caul aliinit decorum 

Who have characters to lose. 
jijig, &c. 



Here's to budgets, bags, and wallota ! 

Heie s to all the wandering train I 
Hero's our raged brats and callots ! 

One and all cry out, Amen 1 

jijig, kc. 



EXTEMPORE. 

Jlpnl, 1782. 



WHY the deuce should I repine, 
And be an ill foreboder? 

Fm twenty lliree, and five feet nine— 
ril go and be a sodger. 

1 gat some gear wi' meikle care, 

1 held it weel thegither ; 
But now it's gane and sometliing niair 
I'll go and be a sodger. 



GLOSSARY. 



The ch and gh have always the guttural sound. The sound of the English iliphthong 
00, is commonly spelled on. The French m, a sound which often occurs in the 
Scottish language, is marked oo^ or ui. The a in genuine Scottish words, except 
when forming a diphthong, or followed by an e mute after a single consonant, sounds 
generally like the Broad English a in wall. The Scottish diphthong ce, always, 
and m, very often, sound like the French e masculine. The Scottish diphthong 
ey, sounds like the Latin ei. 



A. 



A\ All. 

Aback, away, aloof. 

Abeigh, at a shy distance. 

Aboon, above, up. 

Abread, abroad, in sight. 

Abreed, in breadth. 

Addle, putrid water, &c. 

Ae, one. 

Aff, off; Aff loof, unpremeditated. 

Afore, before 

Aft, oft. 

Aflen, often. 

Agley, off the right line ; wrong. 

Aiblins, perhaps. 

Ain, own. 

Airle-penny, Airles, earnest-money. 

Aim, iron. 

Alth, an oath. 

Aits, oats. 

Aiver, an old horse. 

Aizle, a hot cinder. 

Alake, alas. 

jilane, alone. 

.dkwnrl, awkward. 

Amaist, almost. 

Amang, among. 

An', and ; if. 

Ance, once. 

Ane, one ; and. 

Anent, over against. 

Anither, another. 

Ase, ashes. 

Asklent, asquint ; aslant. 

Asteer, abroad ; stirriiv 

Alhart, athwart. 

Aught, possession ; as, in «.' my aught, 

in all my possession. 
Auld lang syne, olden time, days of 

other years. 



Auld, old. 

Auldfarran, or auldfarrant, sagacious, 

cunning, prudent. 
Ava, at all. 
Awa', away. 
Aiofu', awful 

Azvn, the beard of barley, oats, &e. 
Awnie, bearded. 
Ayont, beyond. 



B. 



BA\ Ball. 

Backets, ash boards. 

Backlins, coming; coming back, returr»' 

ing. 
Back, returning. 
Bad, did bid. 
Baide, endured, did stay. 
Baggie, the belly. 
Bainie, having large bones, stout. 
Bairn, a child. 

Bairnlime a family of children, a brood. 
Baith, both. 
Ban, to swear. 
Bane, bone. 

Bang, to beat ; to strive. 
Bardie, diminutive of bard. 
Barefit, barefooted. 
Barmie, of, or like barm 
Batch, a crew, a gang 
Balls, hots. 
Baudrons, a cat. 
Bauld, bold. 
Bnwk, bank. 
Baws'nt, having a white stripe down 

the face. 
Be, to let be ; to give over ; to cease. 
Bear, barley. 

Beastie, diminutive of beast. 
Beet, to add fuel to fire. 
Beld, bald. 



166 



GLOSSARY. 



Behjve, by and by. 

Ben, into tlie spence or parlour ; a 

spcnce. 
Bailomond, a noted mountain in Dum- 

bartonsliiro. 
Bclhnnk-it, grace after meat. 
Beak, a book. 
Bicker, a kind of wooden dish ; a short 

race. 
Die, or Bield, slioltcr. 
Bicn, wealthy, plentiful 
Biff, to build. 

Biffgin, building ; a house. 
Biffffit, built. 
Bill, a bull. 

Billie, n brother ; a young fellow. 
Bins:, a heap of grain, potatoes, &c. " 
Birk, birch. 
Birkcn-shaw, Birchen-wood-shaw, a 

small wood. 
Birkie, a clever fellow. 
Birring; the noise of partridges, &c 

when they spring. 
Bit, crisis, nick of time. 
Bizz, a bustle, to l.nr/z. 
Blnstie, a shrivelled dwarf; a term of 

contempt. 
Blndit, blasted. 
Bhtle, ba^ihful, sheepish. 
Blnllwr, bhiddcr. 

Blatul, allat piece of any thing; to slap. 
Blnw, to blow, to boast. 
Bleerit, bleared, sore with rheum. 
Blcerl and blin', bleared and blind. 
Blcezing, blazing. 
BlcUum, an idle talking fellow. 
Blether, to talk idly ; nonsense. 
Bleth'rin, talking idly. 
G//n/i", a little while; a smiling look; 

to look kindly; to shine by tits. 
Blinker, a term of contempt. 
Blinkin, smirking. 
Blue-ffown, one of those beggars who 

get annually, on the king's birth-day, 

a blue cloak or gown, with a badge. 
Bliiid, blood. 

Bluntic, a sniveller, a stupid person. 
Bli/pe, a shred, a large piece. 
B')ck, to vomit, to gush intermittently. 
Backed, gushed, vomited. 
Bodle, a small gold coin, 
Bog-lcs, spirits, iiobgoblins. 
Bonnie, or bonnj/, handsome, beautiful. 
Bonnock, a kind of thick cake of bread, 

a small januock, or loaf made of oat- 
meal. 
Bnord, a board. 
Boortree, the shrub elder ; planted 

much of old in hedo-os of barn-yards, 

(S:c. 
Bonsl, behoved, must needs. 



Bore, a hole in the wall. 

Batch, an angry tumour. 

Bousing, drinking. 

Bow-kail, cabbage. 

Boict, bended, crooked. 

Brackens, fern. 

Brae, a declivity ; a precipice ; tho 

slope of a hill. 
Braid, broad. 
Braimlg't, reeled forward 
Braik, a kind of harrow. 
Braindffc, to run rashly forward. 
Brak, broke, made insolvent. 
Branks, a kind of wooden curb for 

horses. 
Brash, a sudden illness. 
Bratx, coarse clothes, rags, &c. 
Brattle, a short race ; hurry ; fury. 
Braw, fine, handsome. 
B)'nwl>/, or brawlie, very well ; finely ; 

heartily. 
Braxie, a morbid sheep. 
Breaxtie, diminutive of breast. 
Brea.it.it, did spring up or forward. 
Breckan, fern. 
Brorf, an invulnerable or irresistible 

spell. 
Brecks, breeches. 
Brent, smooth. 
Brcivin, brewing. 
Brie, juice, liquid. 
Briff, a bridge. 
Brunstane, brimstone. 
Bri.ikct, the breast, the bosom. 
Britlier, a brother. 
Brock, a badger. 
Brogue, a hum ; a trick. 
Broo, brotli ; liquid ; water. 
Brooxe, broth ; a race at country wed 

dings, who shall first reach the bride- 
groom's house on returning from 

church. 
Browsler-^oi.ves, ale-house wives. 
Brngh, a burgh. 
Bruilzie, a broil, a combustion. 
Brunt, did burn, burnt. 
Brust, to burst ; burst. 
Buchan-hullers, the boiling of the sea 

among the rocks on the coast of 

Buclian. 
Buckskin, an inhabitant of Virginia. 
Bught, a pen. 
Bughtin-time, the time of collecting the 

sheep in the pens to be milked. 
Biiirdli/, stout-made; broad-made. 
Bnm-clock,n humming beetle that flies 

in the summer evenings. 
Bummhig, humming as bees. 
Jliimmh', to blunder. 
Buinm'cr, a blunderer. 
Bunker, a window-seat. 



GLOSSARY. 



167 



Burdiex, diminutive of birds. 

Bure, did bear. 

Burn, water ; a rivulet. 

Burnewm, i. e. burn the wind, a black- 
smith. 

Burnie, diminutive of burn. 

Buxkie bushy. 

Buskit, dressed. 

Busks, dresses. 

Bussle, a bustle ; to bustle. 

Buss, shelter. 

But, hot,, with ; without. 

But an' hen, the country kitchen and 
parlour. 

Bi/ himsel, lunatic, distracted. 

Bijke, a bee-hivo. 

Bijre, a cow-stable ; a sheep-pen. 



C. 



CA\ To call, to name; to drive. 

CcCt, or ca'd, called, driven ; calved. 

Cadger, a carrier. 

Cadie, or caddie, a person ; a young 
fellow. 

Caff, chaff. 

Caird, a tinker. 

Cairn, a loose heap of stones. 

CaJf-ward, a small enclosure for calves. 

Callan, a boy. 

Caller, fresh ; sound ; refreshinrr. 

Canie, or cannie, gentle, mild; dexterous. 

Cannihe, dexterously ; gently. 

Cantie, or canlij, cheerful, merry. 

Cantraip, a charm, a spell. 

Cap-stane, cope-stone ; key-stone 

Careerin, cheerfully. 

Carl, an old man. 

Carlin, a stout old woman. 

Cartes, cards. 

Caudron, a caldron. 

Caltk and keel, cfialk and red clay. 

Cauld, cold. 

Caup, a wooden drinking-vessel. 

Cesses, taxes. 

Chanter, a part of a bag-pipe. 

Chap, a person, a fellow ; a blow. 

Chatip, a stroke, a blow. 

Cheekit, clieekcd. 

Cheep, a chirp ; to chirp. 

duel, or cheel, a young fellow. 

Chimla, or chimlie, a fire-grate, a fire- 
place. 

Chimla-lu!^, the fireside. 

Chitlering, shivering, trembling. 

Chockin, chocking. 

Chow, to chew ; cheek for chow, side by 
side. 

Chvffie, fat-faced. 

Clachan, a small village about a church ; 
a hamlet. 



Claise, or claes, clothes. 

Claith, cloth. 

Cldithing, clothing. 

Claivers, nonsense; not speaking sense. 

Clap, claj)per of a mill. 

Clarkit, wrote. 

Clash, an idle tale, the story of the day 

Clalter, to tell idle stories ; an idle story. 

Claught, snatched at, laid hold of. 

Claict, to clean ; to scrape. 

Clautcd, scraped. 

Clavers, idle stories. 

Claw, to scratch. 

Cleed, to clothe. 

Cleeds, clothes. 

Cleekit, having caught. 

C/inkin, jerking ; clinking, 

Clinkumbell, he who rings the church- 
bell. 

Clips, shears. 

CUshmaclaver, idle conversation. 

Clock, to hatch ; a beetle. 

Clockin, hatching. 

Clool, the hoof of a cow, sheep, &c. 

Clootie, an old name for the Devil. 

Clour, a bump or swelling after a blow 

Cluds, clouds. 

Coaxin, wheedling. 

Cohle, a fishing-boat. 

Cockernony, a lock of hair tied upon a 
girl's head; a cap. 

Coft, bought. 

Cog, a wooden dish. 

Coggic, diminutive of cog. 

Coila, from Kyle, a district of Ayrshire; 
so called, saith tradition, from Coil, 
or Coilus, a Pictish monarch. 

Collie, a general, and sometimes a par- 
ticular name for country curs. 

Collicshangie, quarrelling, an uproar. 

Commaun, command. 

Cood, the cud. 

Coof, a blockhead ; a ninny. 

Cookit, appeared, and disappeared by 
fits. 

Coast, did cast. 

Coot, the ancle or foot. 

Cootie, a wooden kitchen dish : — also, 
those fowls whose legs are clad with 
feathers, are said to he cootie. 

Corbies, a species of (he crow. 

Core, corps ; party ; clan. 

Corn't, fed with oats. 

Cotter, the inhabitant of a cot-house, or 
cottage. 

Coulhie, kind, loving. 

Cove, a cave. 

Cowe, to terrify ; to keep under, to ^op; 
a fright ; a branch of furze, broom, &c. 

Co^cip, to barter; to tumble over; & 
gang 



r68 



GLOSSARY. 



Coxvpit, tuniblod. 

Coicriiiy coworing 

Cowl, a colt. 

Cozie, siuig. 

Cozili/, smigly. 

Cnibhit, crabboil, fretful. 

Crack, conversation ; to converse. 

Crack'iti, conversing'. 

Craft, or ci-ofl, a Jield near a liouse [in 
old husbandry). 

Craiks, crios or calls incessantly; a bird. 

Crainbo-rlink, or cravtbo-J ingle, rjiynics, 
dorrirrel verses. 

Crank, the noise of an unorreased wheel. 

Crankoiis, fretful, captious. 

Crnnreurh, the hoar frost. 

('rap, a crop ; to crop. 

Craw, a crow of a cock ; a rook. 

Creel, a basket ; to have one's leits in a 
creel, to be crazed ; to be fascinated. 

Creepic-stool, the same as cutty-stool. 

Creeskie, {jreasy. 

Crood, or croud, to coo as a dove. 

Croon, a hollow and continued moan ; 
to make a noise like the continued 
roar of a bull ; to hum a tune. 

Croonins::, lunnmiiij;. 

Crouchie, crook-backed. 

Crouse, cheerful ; coura<>feous. 

Crousely, cheerfully; cournjreously. 

Crowdie, a coniposition of oat-moai and 
boiled water, sometimes from the 
broth of beef, mutton, &-c. 

Crowdie-lime, breakfast time. 

Crowlin, crawlinij. 

Crummock, a cow with crooked horns. 

Crump, hard and brittle ; spokcnof bread. 

Crunt, a blow on the head witliacudg-cl. 

Cuif, a blockhead, a ninny. 

Cummock, a short stalf with a crooked 
liead. 

Currltie, a courtesy. 

Curler, a player at a £]famo on the ice, 
practised in Scotland, called f»?-///)i^. 

Curlie, curled, whoso hair falls natu- 
rally in rino-lots. 

C«?7/;)i;-, a well known pameonthcice. 

Curmurrinsc, murmuring; a slight rum- 
bling noise. 

Curpin, the crupper. 

Cushat, the dove, or wood-pigeon. 

Cutty, short ; a spoon broken in the 
middle. 

Cutty-stool, the stool of repentance. 



D. 



f)./^/)Dr/?, a father. 

Dajjin, merriment ; foolishness 
Daji. merry, giddy ; foolish. 



Daimen, rare, now and then ; daimcn 

icker, an ear of corn now and tjioii. 
Dainty, pleasant, good liumoured, 

agreeable. 
Daise, daez, to stupify 
Dales, plains, valleys. 
Darklins, darkling. 
Daud, to thrash, to abuse. 
Daur, to dare. 
Daurl, dared. 

Daurg, or daurk, a day's labour 
Davoc, David. 
Dawd, a large piece. 
Dawtit, or dawtct, fondled, caressed. 
Dearies, diminutive of dears. 
DcarthJ'u', dear. 
Deave, to deafen. 

Deil-ma-care ! no matter ! for all that ! 
Dcleerit, delirious. 
Deserice, to describe. 
Diiiht, to wipe ; to clean corn from 

chair. 
Dight, cleaned from chaff. 
Ding, to worst, to push. 
Dink, neat, tidy, trhn. 
Dinna, do not. 

Dirl, a slight tremulous stroke or pain 
Dizen, or dizz'n, a dozen. 
Doited, stupilied, hebetated. 
Dolt, stupifunl, crazed. 
Donsie, unlucky. 
Dool, sorrow ; to sing dool, to lament, 

to mourn. 
Doos, doves. 
Dorty, saucy, nice. 
Douce, or douse, sober, wise, prudent. 
Doucely, soberly, pruuently. 
Dought, was or were able. 
Doup, backside. 

Doup-skelper, one that strikes the tail. 
Dour and din, sidlen and sallow. 
Doure, stout, durable; sullen, stubborn. 
/)()»', am or are able, can. 
Dowjf, pithless, wanting force. 
Dowie, worn with grief, fatigue, &.c. 

half asleep. 
Doicna, am or are not able, cannot. 
Doylf, stupid. 

Dozen't, stupified, impotent. 
Drap, a drop; to drop. 
Draiglc, to soil by trailing, to draggl* 

among wet, &.c. 
Dropping, dropping. 
Draunting, drawling; of a slow cnun 

ciation. 
Drecp, to oo/.e, to drop. 
Dreigh, tedious, long about it. 
Dribble, drizzling; slaver. 
Drift, a drove. 
Drodduni, the breech. 



GLOSSARY. 



169 



Drnne, part of a happipo. 

Droo])-ru>iijil'l, llial drops at tlic crup- 
per. 

Di'oukit, wet. 

Drounl'ins;^ drawling. 

DmiilJi, thirst, drought 

Drncken, drunken. 

Uruni/ij, muddy. 

Driimmnck, meal and water mixed in a 
raw state. 

Drunt, pet, sour humour. 

Dub, a small pond. 

Dmh, rags, clothes. 

Uuttdie, ragged. 

Dnn!^, worsted; pushed, driven. 

fJimlcd, beaten, boxed. 

Dits/i, to push as a ram, &c. 

Dushl, pushed by a ram, ox, &c. 



jE'E, the eye. 

Ken, the eyes. 

E'enin, evening. 

Eerie, frighted, dreading spirits. 

Kild, old ago. 

Elhuck, the elbow. 

E/dritc/i, ghastly, frightful. 

Eller, an elder, or church officer 

En', end. 

Enhi'Uf^h, Edinburgh. 

Eneug/i, enough. 

Enpecial, especially. 

Ettle, to try, to attempt. 

Eydenly diligent. 

F. 

F.4', fall; lot; to fall. . 

Fa's, does fall ; water-falls. 

FaddoniH, fathomed. 

F(ie, a foe. 

lutein, foam. 

Faiket, unknown. 

Fair'm, a fairing; a present. 

Fallow, f(^ll6w. 

Fund, did find. 

Farl, a cake of oaten bread, &c. 

Fash, trouble, care ; to trouble to care 

for. 
Fasht, troubled. 
Fdderen e'en, Fasten's Even. 
Fanld, a fold ; to fold 
Fnulditiff, folding. 
Fdut, fault. 
Faule, want, lack. 
Fawsont, decent, seemly. 
Fed!, a field ; smooth. 
FenrftC, frightful. 
Fenr'l, frighted. 
Feal, neat, spruce. 

M ? 



Fechl, to fight. 

J''ei:lUin, fighting. 

Feclc, nuuiy, plenty. 

Fcckrl, an under waistcoat with slee es. 

Fcfkfu', large, brawny, stout. 

Feckless, puny, weak, silly. 

Feckly, weakly. 

/'V'lf, a (ig. 

Feide, feud, enmity. 

Frirric, stout, vigorous, healthy. 

Fell, keen, biting; the flesh immediately 

under the skin ; a field pretty level, 

on the side or top of a hill. 
Fen, successful struggb; ; light. 
Fend, to live comfortably. 
Ferlie, or ferlci/, to wonder; a wonder; 

a term of contempt. 
Frirk, to pull by fits. 
Fetek'l, ])ulled intermittently. 
Fidge, to fidget. 
Fiel, soft, smooth. 
P'tenl, fiend, a petty oath. 
Fier, sound, healthy ; a brother; a friend 
Fissle, to make a rustling noise ; to 

fidget ; a bustle. 
F'it, a foot. 

Filtic-lan', the nearer horse of the hind- 
most pair in the plough. 
Fizz, to make a hissing noise like fcr- 

n^entation. 
Flainen, flannel. 
Flecch, to supplicate in a flattering 

manner. 
Flcech'd, supplicated. 
Flccchin, supplicating, 
Fleesh, a flceci^ 
Flig, a kick, a random. 
Flelber, to decoy by fair words. 
Fhlherin, flattering. 
Fley, to scare, to frighten. 
Fliclilrr, to flutter, as yoimg nestlings 

when their dam ai)proaches. 
Flinders, shreds, broken pieces, splin- 
ters. 
Flinging-lrce, a piece of timber hung 

by way of partition between two 

horses in a stable ; a flail. 
Flisk, to fret at the yoke. Fliskit, 

fretted. 
FliUcr, to vibrate like the wings of 

small birds. 
FliUering, fluttering, vibrating. 
Flunkie, a servant in livery. 
Fodgel, squat and plump. 
Foord, a ford. 
Forhears, forefathers. 
Forhyc, besides. 

For/aim, distressed; worn out, jaded 
Forfoughlc.n, fatigued. 
Forgather, to meet, to encounter with 
Forgie, to forgive. 



I'ro' 



GLOSSARY. 



Forj'r.tkcf, jarled with fatigue. 

Father, fodder. 

Fou, full ; drunk. 

Foiighlen, troubled, liarassed. 

Foiilh, plenty, enough, or more than 

enourrh. 
Fow, a bushel, &c. ; also a pitch-fork. 
Frae, from ; oft". 
Frmiimif, strange, estranged from, at 

enmity with. 
Freat/i, 'h-oth. 
Frien\ friend. 
Fu\ full. 
Fud, the scut, or tail of the hare, cony, 

<fcc. 
Fujf\ to blow intermittently. 
FujPt, did blow. 
Funnie, full of merriment 
Fur, a furrow. 
Furm, a form, bench. 
Fyke, trifling cares ; to piddle, lo'bc in 

a fuss about trifles. 
Fyle, to soil, to dirty 
Fyl'f., soiled, dirtied. 



G. 



GA B, the mouth ; to speak boldly, or 

pertly. 
Gahcr-lunzic, an old man. 
Gndsman, a plougliboy, the boy that 

drives the horses in the plough. 
Gae, to go ; gncd, went ; gaen, or gane, 

gone; ^ijYnm, going. 
Gael, or gnie, way, manner ; road. 
Gnirs, triangular piocrs of cloth sewed 

oil the bottom of a gown, &.C. 
Gang, to go, to walk. 
Gar, to make, to force to. 
Gar't, forced to. 
Garten, a garter. 
Gash, wise, sagacious; talkative; to 

converse. 
Gashin, conversing. 
Gaucy, jolly, large. 
Gaud, a plough. 
Gear, riches; goods of any kind 
Geek, to toss the head in wantonness or 

scorn. 
Ged, a pike. 

Gentleti, great folks, gentry. 
G'enty, elegantly formed, neat. 
Geordie, a guinea. 
Get, a child, a young one. 
Ghaid, a ghost. 

Gie, to give ; gied, gave ; gien, given. 
Giffie, diminutive of gitl. 
Giicfets, playful girls. 
Gillie, diminutive of gill. 
Gilpey, a half grown, half informed boy 

or p-irl, a romping lad, a hoiden. 



Gimmer, a ewe from one to two years 

old. 
Gin, if; against. 
Gipsey, a young girl. 
Gi)7i, to grin, to twist the features in 
rage, agony, &c. 

Girning, grinning. 
Gizz, a periwig. 

Glaikit, inattentive, foolish. 

Glaive, a sword. 

Gawky, half-witted, foolish, romping. 

G/a/c/e, glittering; smooth like glass 

Glaum, to snatch greedily 

Glaum'd, aimed, snatched. 

Glcck, sharp, ready. 

Gleg, sharp, ready. 

Gleib, glebe. 

Glen, a dale, a deep valley. 

Gley, a squint; to squint; a-gley, ofT 
at a side, wrong. 

Glih-gabbel, smooth and ready in speech. 

Glint, to peep. 

Glinted, peeped. 

Glintln, peeping. 

Gloamin, the twilight. 

Glowr, to stare, to look ; a stare, a look. 

Glowred, looked, stared. 

Glunsh, a frown, a sour look. 

Goavan, looking round with a strange, 
inquiring gaze; staring stupidly. 

Gotrrtn, the llower of the wild daisy, 
hawk-weed, &c. 

Gowany, daisied, abounding with dai- 
sies. 

Gowd, gold. 

Goipff, the game of Golf; to strike as 
the bat does the ball at golf. 

Gowjf'd, struck. 

Goick, a cuckoo ; a term of contempt. 

Gowl, to howl. 

Grane, or grain, a groan ; to groan. 

Grained and grunted, groaned and 
granted. 

Grai7iing, groaning. 

Graip, a pronged instrument for clean- 
ing stables. 

Grrt/</(, accoutrements, furniture, dress, 
gear. 

Gj-annie, grandmother. 

Grape, to grope. 

Grnpit, groped. 

Grat, wept, shed tears. 

Great, intimate, familiar. 

Gree, to agree ; to hear the gree, to be 
decidedly victor. 

Greet, agreed. 

Greet, to shed tears, to weep. 

Greetin, crying, weeping. 

Grippet, catchcd, seized. 

Groat, to get the lohistle of one's graat 
to play a losing game. 



GLOSSARY. 



171 



Gronsome, loathsomely, grim. 

Grozct, a gooseberry. 

Grumph, a grunt ; to grunt. 

Grumphie, a sow. 

Grun\ ground. 

Grunstane, a grindstone. 

Gruntle, the phiz ; a grunting noise. 

Grunzie, mouth. 

Grushie, thick ; of thriving growth- 

Glide, the Supreme Being ; good. 

Guid, good. 

Gtiid-morning, good morrow. 

Guid-e'en, good evening. 

Guidman and guidwife, the master and 
mistress of the house ; young guid- 
man, a man newly married. 

Guid-wiUie, liberal ; cordial. 

Guidfather, guidmother, father-in-law, 
and mother-in-law. 

Gully, or gullie, a large knife. 

Gumlie, muddy. 

Gusty, tasteful. 

H. 

HA\ hall. 

Ha'-Bible, the great bible that lies in 

the hall. 
Hue, to have. 
Haen, had, the participle 
IIaet,Jient haet, a petty oath of nega- 
tion; nothing. 
Haff'et, the temple, the side of the head. 
HfiJJlins, nearly half, partly. 
Hag, a scar, or gu If in mosses, and moors. 
Haggix, a kind of pudding boiled in the 

stomach of a cow or sheep. 
Hain, to spare, to save. 
Hain'd, spared. 
Hnirst, harvest. 
Hailh, a petty oath. 
Haivers, nonsense, speaking without 

thought. 
Hal', or hald, an abiding place. 
Hale, whole, tight, healthy. 
Hahj, holy. 
Hame, home. 
Hallan, a particular partition-wall in a 

cottage, or more properly a seat of 

turf at the outside. 
HdUovnnas, Ilallow-eve, the 31st of 

October. 
Hamely, homely, affable. 
Han', or hann\ hand. 
Hap, an outer garment, mantle, plaid, 

&,c. to wrap, to cover; to hop. 
Happer, a hopper. 
Happing, hopping. 
Hap step an' lovp, hop skip and leap. 
Harkit, hearkened. 
Ham, very coarse linen. 



Hush, a fellow that neither knows how 
to dress nor act with propriety. 

Hastit, hastened. 

Hand, to hold. 

Hauglis, low lying, rich lands ; valleys. 

Haurl, to drag ; to peel. 

Haurlin, peeling. 

Haverel, a half-witted person ; half- 
witted. 

Having, good manners, decorum, good 
sense. 

Hawkie, a cow, properly one with a 
white face 

Hfapit, heaped. 

Healsomc, healtliful, wholesome. 

Hearse, hoarse. 

Hear't, hear it. 

Heather, heath. 

Hech ! oh ! strange. 

Hecht, promised ; to foretell something 
that is to be got or given ; foretold ; 
the thing foretold ; offered. 

Heckle, a board, in which are fixed a 
number of sharp pins, used in dress- 
ing hemp, flax, &c. 

Heeze, to elevate, to raise. 

Helm, the rudder or helm. 

Herd, to tend flocks ; one who tends 
flocks. 

Herrin, a herring. 

Herry, to plunder ; most properly to 
plunder birds' nests. 

Herrymenl, plundering, devastation 

Hersel, herself; also a herd of cattle, 
of any sort. 

Hct, hot. 

Hevgh, a crag, a coalpit. 

Hilch, a hobble ; to halt. 

Hilchin, halting. 

Himsel, himself. 

Hiney, honey. 

fling, to hang. 

Hirple, to walk crazily, to creep. 

Hissel, so many cattle as one person 
can attend. 

Histie, dry ; chapped ; barren. 

Hilch, a loop, a knot. 

Hizzie, a hussy, a young girl. 

Hod/lin, the motion of a sage country- 
man riding on a cart-horse ; humble. 

Hog-score, a kind of distance line, in 
curling, drawn across the rink. 

Hog-shoulher, a kind of horse piay, by 
justling with the shoulder ; tojustle. 

Hoot, outer skin or case, a nut-t.heU ; 
a peas-cod. 

Hoolie, slowly, leisurely. 

Hoolie ! take leisure, stop. 

Hoord, a hoard ; to hoard. 

Hoordit, horded. 

Horn, a spoon made of horn. 



172 



GLOSSARY. 



Hornie, one of the many names of the 
devil. 

Host, or hoast, to cough ; a cough. 

Hostin, cougliing. 

Hosts, couiilis. 

Hotc/i'd, turned topsyturvy; blended, 
mixed. 

Ho ui^hmngandie, fornication 

Houlet, an owl. 

Housie, diminutive of I'ousa 

Hove, to lieave, to swell. 

Hov\l, heaved, swelled. 

Houulie, a midwife. 

Howe, hollow ; a hollow or dell. 

Howcbnckit, sunk in the back, spoken 
of a horse, &c. 

Howff\ a tippling house ; a house of re- 
sort. 

Hoick, to dig. 

Howkit, digged. 

Howkin, digging. 

Howlet, an owl. 

Hoy, to urge. 

Hoi/t, urged. 

Hoyse, to pull upwards. 

Hoyte, to amble crazily. 

Hughoc, diminutive of Hugh. 

Hurchcon, a hedgehog. 

Hui-dics, the loins ; the crupper. 

Hushion, a cushion. 



I. 



r, in. 

Icker, an ear of corn. 
Irr-oc, a great-grandchild. 
Ilk, or Ilka, each, every. 
Ill-icillie, ill-natured, malicious, nig- 
gardly. 
In gin c, genius, ingenuity. 
Ingle, fire ; fire-place. 
Ise, I shall or will. 
/</ier, other; one another. 



J. 



J AD, jade ; also a familiar term among 
country folks for a giddy young girl. 

Jauk, to dally, to trifle. 

Jnukin, trilling, dallying. 

Jaup, a jerk of water; to jerk as agi- 
tated water. 

.Tf/it', coarse raillery; to pour out ; to 
shut, to jerk as ivater. 

Jci-kinct, a jerkin, or short gown. 

Jlllcf, a jilt, a giddy girl. 

Jimp, to jump; slender in the waist; 
handsome. 

Jimps, easy stays. 

Jink, to dodge, to turn a corner; a 
sudden turning ; a corner 



Jinkcr, that turns quickly ; a gay, 

sprightly girl ; a wag. 
Jinkin, dodging. 
J irk, a jerk. 

Joctclcg, a kind of knife. 
Jouk, to stoop, to bow the head. 
Jow, tojoio, a verb which includes both 

the swinging motion and pealing 

soimd of a large bell. 
Jundie, to justle. 



K. 



KAEy a daw. 

Kail, colewort ; a kind of broth. 

Kail-runt, the stem of colewort. 

Kaiti, fowls, &LC. paid as rent by a far- 
mer. 

Kcbhuck, a cheese. 

Keckle, to giggle ; to titter 

Keck, a peep, to peep. 

Kelpies, a sort of mischievous spirits, 
said to haunt fords and ferries at night, 
especially in storms. 

Ken, to know ; kcnd or kenn'd knew. 

Kennin, a small matter. 

Kenspeckle well known, easily known 

Ket, matted, hairy; a fleece of wool. 

Kilt, to truss up tlie clothes. 

Kimmer, a young girl, a gossip. 

Kin, kindred ; kin\ kind, adj. 

King's-hood, a certain part of the en- 
trails of an ox, &.C. 

Kintra, country. 

Kintra Cooser, country stallion. 

Kirn, the harvest supper ; a churn. 

Kirsrn, to christen, or baptize. 

Kist, a chest ; a shop counter. 

I\ifchcn, any tliiugthat eats with bread ; 
to serve for soup, gravy, &c. 

Kilh, kindred. 

Kittle, to tickle ; ticklish ; lively, apt. 

Kitllin, a young cat. 

Kiultle, to cuddle. 

Kndtlin, cuddling. 

Knaggie, like knags, or points of rocks. 

Knap, to strike smartly, a snuirt blow. 

Knappin-liainmcr, a hammer for break- 
ing stones. 

Knoive, a small round hillock. 

Knurl, a dwarf. 

Ki/e, cows. 

Kt/le, a district in Ayrshire. 

K]/te, the belly. 

Kythe, to discover ; to show one's self 



L. 



LADDIE, dimmutive of lad. 
Laggen, the angle between the side and 
bottom of a wooden disij. 



GLOSSARY. 



173 



fMigh, low. 

Lairing, wading, pjI sinking in enow, 
mud, Slc. 

Laitli, loath. 

Laithfu', bashful, shrcpish. 

Lallan.i, tlie Scottisii dialect of the 
English language. 

Ldmbie, diminutive of lamb. 

Lnmpit, a kind of shell-fish, a limpit. 

Lnn\ land ; estate. 

Lane, lone ; my lane, thy lane, SfC. my- 
self alone, &c. 

Laneiij, lonely. 

Lang, long ; to think lang, to long, to 
weary. 

Lap, did leap. 

Lave, the rest, the remainder, the others. 

Laverock, the lark. 

Laivin, shot, reckoning, bill. 

Lawlan, lowland. 

Lea'e, to leave. 

Leal, loyal, true, faithful. 

Lea-rig, grassy ridge. 

Lear, (pronounce lare,) learning. 

Lee-lang, live-long. 

Leesomc, pleasant. 

Leezo-me, a phrase of congratulatory 
endearment ; I am happy in thee, or 
proud of thee. 

Leixter, a three pronged dart for strik- 
ing fish. 

Leugh, did laugh 

Leuk, a look ; to look 

Lihhct, gelded. 

Lift, the sky. 

Lightlij, sneeringly ; to sneer at 

Lilt, a ballad ; a tune ; to sing. 

Limmer, a kept mistress, a strumpet. 

himp't, limped, hobbled 

Link, to trip along 

Linkin, tripping. 

Linn, a water-fall ; a precipice. 

Lint, flax ; lint i' the bell, flax in flower. 

Lintwhite, a linnet. 

Loan, or loanin, the place of milking. 

Loof, the palm of the han(' 

Loot, did let. 

Looves, plural of loof. 

Lotm, a fellow, a ragamuffin ; a woman 
of easy virtue. 

Loup, jump, Icao 

Lowe, a flame. 

Lowin, flaming. 

Lowrie, abbreviation o/* Lawrence 

LoiBse, to loose. 

Loios'd, loosed. 

Lug, the ear ; a handle. 

Lugget, having a handle. 

Luggie, a small wooden dish with a 
handle. 

Lnm, the chimney. 



/>Mnc/i, alaige piece of cheese, flesh, &,c 
Lunt, a column of smoke ; to smoke. 
Lunlin, smoking. 
Lyart, of a mixed colour, gray., 

M. 

MAE, more. 

J\Iair, more. 

J\lai.st, most, almost. 

Maistly, mostly. 

J}Iak, to make. 

J\Iakin, making. 

J\Tailen, a farm. 

Millie, Molly. 

Mang, among. 

M^mse, the parsonage house, where the 
minister lives. 

JWanleele, a mantle. 

Mark, marks, [This and several other 
nouns which in English rec/uire an s, 
to form the plural, are in Scotch, like 
the words sheep, deer, the same in 
both numbers.) 

Marled, variegated ; spotted. 

Mar's year, the year 1715. 

Mashlum, meslin, mixed corn. 

Mask, to mash, as malt, &-c. 

Maskin-pat, a tea-pot. 

Maud, maad, a plaid worn by shep- 
herds, &,c. 

Maukin, a hare. 

Maun, must. 

Mavis, the thrush 

Maw, to mow. 

Mawin, mowing. 

Mcere, a marc. 

Meikle, meickle, much. 

Melancholious, mournful 

Mclder, corn, or grain of any kind, sent 
to the mill to be ground. 

Mell, to meddle. Also a mallet for 
pounding barley in a stone trough. 

Mclvie, to soil with meal. 

Men', to mend. 

Mense, good manners, decorum. 

Menscless, ill-bred, rude, impudent. 

Messin, a small dog. 

Midden, a dunghill. 

Midden-hole, a gutter at the bottom of 
a dunghill. 

Mim, prim, affectedly meeK. 

Min', mind ; resemblance. 

Mind't, mind it ; resolved, intending. 

Minnie, mother, dam. 

Mirk, mirkest, dark, darkest. 

Misca', to abuse, to call names 

Misra'd, abused. 

Mislear'd, mischievous, unmannerly. 

Mistcuk, mistook. 

Mither, a mother. 



!74 



GLOSSARY. 



J\Iixtie-maxtie, confusedly mixed. 

J\Toistify, to moisten. 

tDIony, or motiie, many. 

J\Iools, dust, earth, the earth of the 

grave. To rake i' the mools ; to lay 

in the dust. 
J^Toop, to nibble as a sheep. 
J\Ioorlan\ of or belonging to moors. 
J\Iorn, the next day, to-niorrow. 
J\Iuu, tlie mouth. 
J\Ioudiwort, a mole. 
J\Iousie, diminutive of mouse. 
J)fuckle, or mickle, great, big, much. 
J\Iusie, diminutive of muse. 
Muslin-kail, broth, composed simply of 

water, shelled-barley, and greens. 
Mutchkin, an English pint. 
J\Iysel, myself. 

N. 

tiN'A, no, not, nor. 

J^ae, no, not any. 

A''aething, or naithing, nothing. 

'N'aig, a horse. 

JSTane, none. 

JVappy, ale ; to be tipsy. 

Jfegleckit, neglected. 

Jfeuk, a nook. 

Kiest, next. 

JVieve, the fist. 

Jfievefu\ handful. 

JS''iffer, an exchange ; to exchange, to 

barter. 
Jfiger, a negro. 

J^ine-taiVd-cat, a hangman's whip. 
JV77, a nut. 

J^orland, of or belonging to the north. 
JVotic't, noticed. 
JVoiole, black cattle. 

O. 

0\ of. 

Ochels, name of mountains. 

O haith, O faith ! an oath. 

Ony, or 07iie, any. 

Or, is often used for ere, before 

Ora, or orra, supernumerary, that can 

be spared. 
07, of it. 

Ourie, shivering; drooping. 
Oursel, or oursels, ourselves. 
Outlers, cattle not housed. 
Ower, over ; too. 
Ower-hip, a way of fetching a blow 

with the hammer over the arm. 



P. 



PACK, intimate, familiar ; twelve 
stone of wool. 



Painch, paunch. 

Paitrick, a partridge. 

Pang, to cram. 

Parle, speech. 

Parritch, oatmeal pudding, a well- 
known Scotch dish. 

Pat, did put ; a pot. 

Pattle, or pettle, a plough-stafF. 

Paughty, proud, haughty. 

Pauky, or pawkie, cunning, sly. 

Pay't, paid ; beat. 

Pech, to fetch the breath short, as in 
an asthma. 

Pechan, the crop the stomach. 

Peelin, peeling, the rind of fruit. 

Pet, a domesticated sheep, &c. 

Pettle, to cherish ; a plough-stafF. ' 

Philihegs, short petticoats worn by the 
Highlandmen. 

Phraise, fair speeches, flattery ; to flat- 
ter. 

Phraisin, flattery. 

Pibroch, Highland war music adapted 
to the bagpipe. 

Pickle, a small quantity. 

Pi7ie, pain, uneasiness. 

Pit, to put. 

Placad, a public proclamation. 

Plack, an old Scotch coin, the third 
part of a Scotch penny, twelve of 
which make an English penny 

Plackles.1, pennyless, v/ithout money 

Plafie, diminutive of plate. 

Pleiv, or pleugh, a plough. 

Pliskie, a trick. 

Poind, to seize cattle or goods for rent 
as the laws of Scotland allow. 

Poortilh, poverty. 

Poll, to pull. 

Pouk, to pluck. 

Poiixsrle, a hare, or cat. 

Pout, a poult, a chick. 

PouH, did pull. 

Powthery, like powder. 

Pow, the head, the skull, 

Pownie, a little horse. 

Powther, or pouthcr, powder. 

Preen, a pin. 

Prent, to print ; print. 

Prie, to taste. 

Prie'd, tasted 

Prief, proof. 

Prig, to clieapen ; to dispute. 

Priggin, cheapening. 

Primsie, demure, precise. 

Propone, to lay down, to propose. 

Provoses, provosts. 

Puddock-stool, a mushroom, fungus. 

Pund, pound ; pounds. 

Pyle, — a pyle 0' cajff^, a single grain ol 
chaff". 



GLOSSARY. 



175 



Q. 



Q UA T, to quit. 
Quak, to quake. 
Quey, a cow from one to two years old. 



R. 



RAGWEED, the herb ragwort. 

Raible, to rattle nonsense. 

Rair, to. roar. 

Raize, to madden, to inflame. 

Ram-feezVd, fatigued ; overspread. 

Ram-slam, thoughtless, forward. 

Raploch, (propcrhj) a coarse cloth ; but 

used as an adnnunfor coarse. 
Rarely, excellently, very well, 
ilrts/i, arush ; ras/j.-6M*5, a bush of rushes. 
Ration, a rat. 

Raucle, rash ; stout ; fearless. 
Raught, reached. 
Raw, a row. 
Rax, to stretch. 
Ream, cream ; to cream.. 
Reaming, brimful, frothing. 
Reave, rove. 
Reck, to heed. 
Rede, counsel ; to counsel. 
Red-wat-shod, walking in blood over 

the shoe-tops. 
Red-wud, stark mad. 
Ree, half-drunk, fuddbd. 
Reek, smoke. 
Reekin, smoking. 
Reekit, smoked ; smoky. 
Remead, remedy. 
Requite, requited. 
Resl, to stand restive. 
jRes^ti, stood restive; stunted; withered. 
Restricked, restricted. 
Rew, to repent to compassionate. 
Rief, reef, plenty. 
Riff randies, sturdy beggars. 
Rig, a ridge. 
Rigwiddie, rigwoodie, the rope or chain 

that crosses the saddle of a horse to 

support the spokes of a cart ; spare, 

withered, sapless. 
Rin, to run, to melt ; rinnin, running. 
Rink, the course of the stones ; a term 

in curling on ice. 
Rip, a handful of unthreshed corn. 
Riskit, made a noise lik^, the tearing of 

roots. 
Rockin, spinning on the rock or distaff". 
Rood, stands likewise for the plural 

roods. 
Roon, a shred, a border or selvage. 
Roose, to praise, to commend. 
Roosty, rusty. 



Roun', round, in the circle of neigh- 
bourhood. 

Roupct, hoarse, as with a cold 

Rout/lie, plentiful. 

Row, to roll, to wrap. 

Row't, rolled, wrapped. 

Rowle, to low, to bellow. 

Rowlh, or routh, plenty. 

Rowtin, lowing. 

Rozet, rosin. 

Rung, a cudgel. 

Runkled, wrinkled. 

Runt, the stern of colewort or cabbage. 

Rulh, a woman's name ; the book bo 
called ; sorrow. 

Ryke, to reach. 



S. 



SAE, so. 

Safl, soft. 

Sair, to serve ; a sore. 

Sairly, or sairlie, sorely. 

Sair't, served. 

Sark, a shirt ; a shift. 

Sarkit, provided in shirts. 

Saugh, the willow. 

Saul, soul. 

Saumont, salmon. 

Saunt, a saint. 

Saut, salt, adj. salt. 

Saw, to sow. 

Sawin, sowing. 

Sax, six 

Scaith, to damage, to injure ; injury. 

Scar, a cliff. 

Scand, to scald. 

Scauld, to scold. 

Scaur, apt to be scared. 

Scawl, a scold ; a termigant. 

Scon, a cake of bread. 

Scanner, a loathing ; to loathe. 

Scraich, to scream as a hen, partridge, 

&c. 
Screed, to tear ; a rent. 
Scrieve, to glide swiftly along. 
Scrievin, gleesomely ; swiftly. 
Scrimp, to scant. 
Scrimpet, did scant ; scanty. 
See'd, did see. 
Seizin, seizing. 

Sel, self; a body's sel, one s self alone. 
SelVt, did sell. 
Sen', to send. 

Sen't, I, &c. sent, or did send it; send it 
Servan', servant. 
SetUin, settling ; to get a selllin, to be 

frighted into quietness. 
Sets, sets off, goes away. 
Shackled, distorted; shapeless. 
Shaird, a shred, a shard. 



176 



GLOSSARY. 



Shangan, a stick cleft at one end for 
putting the tail of a dog, &c. into, 
by way of mischief, or to frighten 
him away. 
Shaver, a humorous wag ; a barber. 
Shaw, to show ; a small wood in a hol- 
low. 

Sheen, bright, shining. 

Sheep-shank ; to think one's self nae 
sheep-shank, to be conceited. 

Sherra-rnoor, sheriff-moor, the famous 
battle fought in the rebellion, A. D. 
1715. 

Sheugh, a ditch, a trench, a sluice. 

Shiel, a shed. 

Shill, shrill. 

Shog, a shock ; a push off at one side. 

Shool, a shovel. 

Shoon, shoes. 

Shore, to offer, to threaten. 

Shor'd, offered. 

Shouther, the shoulder. 

Shure, did shear, shore. 

Sic, such. 

Sicker, sure, steady. 

Sidelins, sidelong, slantmg 

Siller, silver ; money. 

Simmer, summer. 

Sin, a son. 

Sin\ since. 

Skaith, see scaith 

Skellum, a worthless fellow. 

Skelp, to strike, to slap ; to walk with 
a smart tripping step ; a smart stroke. 

Skelpie-limmer, a reproachful term in 
female scolding. 

Skelpin, stepping, walking. 

Skiegh, or skeigh, proud, nice, high- 
mettled. 

S kink I in, a small portion. 

Skirl, to shriek, to cry shrilly. 

Skirling, shrieking, crying. 

Skirl't, shrieked. 

Sklent, slant ; to run aslant, to deviate 
from truth. 

Sklented, ran, or hit, in an oblique di- 
rection. 

Skouth, freedom to converse without 
restraint ; range, scope. 

Skriegh, a scream ; to scream. 

Skijrin, shining ; making a great show 

Skyte, force, very forcible motion. 

Slae, a sloe. 

Slade, did slide. 

Slap, a gate ; a breacli in a fence. 

Slaver, saliva ; to emit saliva. 

Slaw, slow. 

Slee, sly ; slcest, sliest. 

Sleekit, sleek ; sly. 

Sliddery, slippery. 



Slype, to fall over, as a wet furro>V 

from the plough. 
Sli/pet, fell. 
Sma', small. 

Smeddum, dust, powder ; mettle, sense. 
Smiddy, a smithy. 
Smoor, to smother. 
Smoor'd, smothered. 
Snioutie, smutty, obscene, ugly. 
Smytrie, a numerous collection of small 

individuals. 
Snapper, to stumble, a stumble. 
Snash, abuse. Billingsgate. 
Snaw, snow ; to snow. 
Snaw-broo, melted snow. 
Snawie, snowy. 

Sneck, snick, the latch of a door. 
Sned, to lop, to cut off. 
Sneeshin, snuff. 
Sneeshin-mill, a snuff-box. 
Snell, bitter, biting. 
Snick-drawing, trick-contriving, crafty 
Snirtle, to laugh restrainedly. 
Snood, a ribbon for binding the hair. 
Snool, one whose spirit is broken with 

oppressive slavery ; to submit tamely, 

to sneak. 
Snoove, to go smoothly and constantly , 

to sneak. 
Snowk, to scent or snuff, as a dog, &c. 
Snowkit, scented, snuffed. 
Sonsie, having sweet engaging looks ; 

lucky, jolly. 
Soom, to swim. 
Sooth, truth, a petty oath. 
Sough, a heavy sigh, a sound dying on 

the ear. 
Souple, flexible ; swift. 
Souter, a shoemaker. 
Sowens, a dish made of oatmeal ; the 

seeds of oatmeal soured, &c. flum- 
mery. 
Sowp, a spoonful, a small quantity of 

any thing liquid. 
Sowth, to try over a tune with a low 

whistle. 
Sowther, solder ; to solder, to cement. 
Spae, to prophesy, to divine. 
Spaul, a limb. 

Spairge, to dash, to soil, as with mire. 
Spaviet, having the spavin. 
Spean, spane, to wean. 
Speat, or spate, a sweeping torrent, after 

rain or thaw. 
Speel, to climb. 
Spence, the country parlour. 
Spier, to ask, to inquire. 
SpierH, inquired. 
Splatter, a splutter, to splutter. 
Spleughan, a tobacco-pouch. 



GLOSSARY. 



J77 



Splore, a frolic ; a noise, riot. 

Sprnckle, sprachle, to clamber. 

Sprfdtlc, to scramble. 

Sprctklfid, spotted, speckled. 

Spring, a quick air in music ; a Scot- 
tish reel. 

Sprit, a tough-rooted plant, something 
like rushes. 

Sprittie, full of sprit. 

Spunk, fire, mettle; wit. 

Spunkie, mettlesome, fiery ; will-o'-wisp, 
or ignis faluus. 

Spurtle, a stick used in making oatmeal 
pudding or porridge. 

Squad, a crew, a party. 

Squatter, to flutter in water, as a wild 
duck, &c. 

Squaltle, to sprawl. 

Squeel, a scream, a screech ; to scream. 

Stacker, to slagger. 

Slack, a rick of corn, hay, &c. 

Staggie, the diminutive of stag. 

Stalwart, strong stout. 

Slant, to stand ; slari't, did stand. 

Stane, a stone. 

Slang, an acute pain ; a twinge ; to 
sting. 

Slank, did stink; a pool of standing 
water. 

Strip, stop. 

Stark, stout. 

Startle, to run as cattle stung by the 
gad-fly. 

Siaumrel, a blockhead ; half-witted. 

Staw, did steal ; to surfeit 

Steck, to cram the belly. 

Stechin cramming, 

Stcek, to shut ; a stitch. 

Steer, to molest ; to stir. 

Sleeve, firm, compacted. 

Stell, a still. 

Sten, to rear as a horse. 

Sten't, reared. 

Ste7its, tribute ; dues of any kind. 

Ster/, steep ; steyest, steepest. 

Stihhle, stubble ; stibble-rig, the reaper 
in harvest who takes the lead. 

Stick an' stow, totally, altogether. 

Stile, a crutch ; to halt, to limp. 

Stimpart, the eighth part of a Winches- 
ter bushel. 

Stirk; a cow or bullock a year old. 

Stock, a plant or root of colewort, cab- 
bage, &c. 

Stock in, a stocking ; th roxning the stockin, 
when the bride and bridegroom are 
put into bed, and the candle out, the 
former throws a stocking at random 
among the company, and the person 
whom it strikes is the next that will 
be married. 

N 



Sloiter, to stagger, to stammer. 

Stookcd, made up in shocks as corn. 

Sloor, sounding hollow, strong, and 
hoarse. 

Slot, an ox. 

Stoup, or stowp, a kind of jug or dish 
with a handle. 

Sloure, dust, more particularly dust in 
motion. 

Stowlins, by stealth. 

Stown, stolen. 

Stoyle, to stumble. 

Strack, did strike. 

Strae, straw ; to die a fair strae death, 
to die in bed. 

Straik, did strike. 

Slraikit, stroked. 

Slrappan, tall and handsome. 

Slraughl, straight, to straighten. 

Streek, stretched, tight ; to stretch. 

Striddle, to straddle. 

Stroan, to spout, to piss. 

Sluddie, an anvil. 

Stumpic, diminutive of stump. 

Strunt, spirituous liquor of any kind ; 
to walk sturdily ; huff, sullenness. 

Stuff, corn or pulse of any kind. 

Slurt, trouble ; to molest. 

Sturtin, frighted. . 

Sucker, sugar. 

Sud, should. 

Sugh, the continued rushing noise of 
wind or water. 

Sulhron, southern ; an old name for the 
English nation. 

Swaird, sward. 

Swall'd, swelled. 

Swank, stately, jolly. 

Swankie, or swanker, a tight strapping 
young fellow or girl. 

Swap, an exchange ; to barter. 

Swarf, to swoon ; a swoon. 

Swat, did sweat. 

Swatch, a sample. 

Swats, drink ; good ale. 

Sweaten, sweating. 

Swecr, lazy, averse ; dead-sweer, ex- 
tremely averse. 

Swoor, swore, did swear. 

Swinge, to beat ; to whip. 

Swirl, a curve ; an eddying blast, or 
pool ; a knot in wood. 

Swirlie, knaggie, full of knots. 

Swith, get away. 

Swithcr, to hesitate in choice ; an ir- 
resolute wavering in choice. 

Syne, since, ago ; then. 



TACKETS, a kind of nails for driving 
into the heels of shoes. 



178 



GLOSSARY. 



Tae, a toe; three-tae'd, having three 
prongs. 

Taii-ge, a target. 

Tak, to take ; tnhin, taking. 

Tamtallan, the name of a mountain. 

Tangle^ a sea-weed. 

Tap, the top. 

Tapetlessy lieedless, foolish. 

Tarrow, to murmur at one's allowance. 

Tarrow't, murmured. 

Tarry -brecks, a sailor. 

Tauld, or laid, told. 

Taupie, a foolish, thoughtless young 
person. 

Tatctcd, or tautie, ma.tted together ; spo- 
ken of hair or wool. 

Tawie, that allows itself peaceably to be 
handled ; spoken of a horse, cow, &c. 

Teat, a small quantity. 

Teen, to povoke ; provocation. 

Tedding, spreading after the mower. 

Ten-hours bite, a slight feed for the 
horses while in the yoke, in thefore- 
noon. 

7''ent, a field-pulpit ; heed, caution ; to 
take heed ; to tend or herd cattle. 

Tentie, heedful, caution 

Tcntless, heedless. 

Teugh, tough. 

TV' arA:, thatch; thackan' rn^e, clothing, 
necessaries. 

Tliae, these. 

T/inirms, small guts ; fiddle-strings. 

Thankit, thanked. 

Theekit, thatched. 

Thegither, together. 

Themsel, themselves. 

Thick, intimate, familiar. 

Thieveless, cold, dry, spited; spoken of 
a person's demeanour. 

Thir, these. 

Thirl, to thrill. 

Thirled, thrilled, vibrated. 

Thole, to suffer, to endure. 

Thoice, a thaw; to thaw. 

Thoiuless, slack, lazy. 

Thrrtng, throng ; a crowd. 

Thrapple, throat, windpipe. 

Thrave, twenty-four sheaves or two 
shocks of corn ; a considerable num- 
ber. 

Thrnw, to sprain, to twist ; to contradict. 

Thrawin, twisting, (fee. 

Thrawn, sprained, twisted, contradict- 
ed. 

Threap, io maintain by dint of assertion. 

Tlireshin, thrashing. 

Thrcteen, thirteen. 

Thristle, thistle. 

Through, to go un with ; to make out. 

Throulher, pell-mell, confusedly. 



Thud, to make a loud intermittent noise 

Thimipif, thumped 

Tlu/sel. thyself. 

Till't, to it. 

Ti'mnier, timber. 

Tine, to lose ; tint, lost. 

Tinkler, a tinker. 

Tint the gate, lost the way. 

Tip, a ram. 

Tippence, twopence. 

Tirl, to make aslightnoise; touncovei- 

Tirlin, uncovernig. 

Tither, the other. 

Tittle, to whisper. 

Tittlin, whispering. 

Tocher, marriage portion. 

Tod, a fox. 

Toddle, to totter, like the walk of a child. 

Toddtin, tottering. 

Tuom, empty, to empty. 

Toop, a ram. 

Toun, a hamlet ; a farm-house. 

Tout, the blast of a horn or trumpet , to 
blow a horn, &c. 

Tow, a rope. 

Towmond, a twelvemonth. 

Toiczie, rough, siiaggy. 

Toy, a very old fashion of female head- 
dress. 

Toyte, to totter like old age. 

Trcmsmugrify'd, transmigrated, meta- 
morphosed. 

Trashtrie, trash. 

Trews, trowsers. 

Trickie, full of tricks. 

Trig, spruce, neat. 

Trimly, excellently. 

Trow, to believe. 

Trowth, truth, a petty oath. 

Tryste, an appointment ; a fair. 

Trysted, appointed; to tryste, to make 
an appointment. 

Try't, tried. 

Tug, raw hide, of which in old times 
plough-traces were frccjuently made. 

Tulzie, a quarrel ; to quarrel, to fight. 

Twa, two. 

Twn-lhree, a few. 

'Twad, it would. 

Tival, twelve ; twal-pennie worth, a 
small quantity, apenny-v/orth. 

N . B . One penny English is 1 2d Scotch. 

Twin, to part. 

Tyke, a dog. 



U. 



UJ^CO, strange, uncouth ; very, very 

great, prodigious. 
Uncos, news. 
Unkenn'd unknown. 



GLOSSARY. 



179 



Unsicker, unsure, unsteady. 
Unskaith'd, undamaged, unhurt. 
Unweeting; unwittingly, unknowingly. 
Upo', upon. 
Urchin, a hedge-hog. 

V. 

VAP'RIJ^, vapouring. 

T'^era, very. 

Virl, a ring round a column, &c. 

Vittle, corn of all kinds, food. 

W. 

WA\ wall ; tea's, walls. 

Wabster, a weaver. 

Wad, would ; to bet ; a bet, a pledge. 

JVadna, would not. 

Wae, wo ; sorrowful. 

Waefu\ woful, sorrowful, wailing. 

Waesucks ! or waes-me ! alas ! O the 

pity. 
Waft, the cross thread that goes from 

the shuttle through the web ; woof. 
Wair, to lay out, to expend. 
Wale, choice ; to choose. 
Ward, chose, chosen. 
Walie, ample, large, jolly ; also an in- 
terjection of distress. 
Wame, the belly. 
Wamefu\ a belly-full. 
Wanchuncie, unlucky. 
Wanrcsl/u', restless. 
Wark, work. 

Wark-lume, a tool to work with. 
Warl, or warld, world. 
Warlock, a wizard. 
Warly, worldly, eager on amassing 

wealth. 
Warran, a warrant ; to warrant. 
Worst, worst. 

Warstl'd, or warsl'd, wrestled. 
Wastrie, prodigality. 
Wat, wet ; / wat, I wot, I know. 
Water-brose, brose made of meal and 

water simply, without the addition of 

milk, butter, &c. 
Wattle, a twig, a wand. 
Wauble, to swing, to reel. 
Waught, a draught. 
Waukit, thickened as fullers do cloth. 
Waukrife, not apt to sleep. 
Waur, worse ; to worst. 
Wnurt, worsted. 
Wean, or weanie, a child. 
Wearie, or weary ; many a weary body, 

many a different person. 
Weason, weasand. 
Weavins: the stocking. See, Stocking, 

p. 177. 



Wee, little ; wee things, little ones; wee 
bit, a small matter. 

Weel, well ; weelfare, welfare. 

Weet, rain, wetness. 

Weird, fate. 

We\ie, we shall. 

Wha, who. 

Whaizle, to wheeze 

Whalpit, whelped. 

Whang, a leathern string ; a piece of 
cheese, bread, &c. to give the strap 
pado. 

Whare, where ; where'' er, wherever. 

Wheep, to fly nimbly, to jerk , penny- 
wheep, small beer. 

WJuise, whose. 

Whatreck, nevertheless. 

Whid, the motion of a hare, running but 
not frighted ; a lie. 

Whidden, running as a hare or cony. 

Whigmeleeries, whims, fancies, crotch- 
ets. 

Whingin, crying, complaining, fretting 

Whirligigums, useless ornaments, tri- 
fling appendages. 

Whissle, a whistle ; to whistle. 

Whisht, silence ; to hold one's whisht, U 
be silent. 

Whisk, to sweep, to lash. 

Whiskit, lashed. 

Wkitter, a hearty draught of liquor. 

Whun-stane, a whin-stone. 

Whyles, whiles, sometimes. 

Wi', with. 

Wicht, v)ight, powerful, strong ; inven- 
tive ; of a superior genius. 

Wick, to strike a stone in an oblique 
direction ; a term in culling. 

Wicker, willow (the smaller sort.) 

Wiel, a small whirlpool. 

Wifie, a diminutive or endearing term 
for wife. 

Wilyart, bashful and reserved ; avoid- 
ing society or appearing awkward in 
it ; wild, strange, timid. 

Wimple, to meander. 

WimpVt, meandered. 

Wimplin, waving, meandering. 

Win, to win, to winnow. 

Win't, winded as a bottom of varn 

Win\ wind ; win's, winds. 

Winna, will not. 

Winnock, a window. 

Winsome, hearty, vaunted, gay. 

Wintle, a staggering motion ; to stag- 
ger, to reel. 

Winze, an oath. 

Wiss, to wish. 

Withoutten, without. 

Wizen'd, hide-bound, dried, shrunk. 



!R0 



GLOSSARY. 



jronner, a wonder ; a contemptuous 
appellation. 

Wons, dwells. 

Woo\ wool. 

Woo, to court, to make love to. 

Woodie, a rope, more properly one 
made of withes or willows. 

Wooer-hob, the garter knotted below 
the knee with a couple of loops. 

Wordy, worthy. 

Worset, worsted. 

TVow, an exclamation of pleasure or 
wonder. 

Wrack, to teaze, to vex. 

Wraith, a spirit, or ghost ; an appari- 
tion exactly like aliving person, whose 
appearance is said to forebode the 
person's approaching death. 

Wrang, wrong ; to wrong. 

Wreelh, a drifted heap of snow. 

Wud-mad, distracted. 

Wumble, a wimble. 

Wyle, to beguile. 

Wyliecoat, a flannel vest. 

Wyle, blan^e ; to blame. 



y. 



YAD, an old mare ; a worn out horse 

Ye ; this 2^ronoun is frequently used Jnr 
thou. 

Yearns, longs much. 

Yearlings, born in the same year, co- 
evals. 

Year is used both for singular and plU' 
ral, years. 

Yearn, earn, an eagle, an ospray. 

Yell, barren, that gives no milk. 

Yerk, to lash, to jerk. 

Yerkit, jerked, lashed. 

Yestreen, yesternight. 

Yett, a gate, such as is usually at the 
entrance into a farm-yard or field. 

Yill, ale. 

Yird, earth. 

Yokin, yoking ; a bout. 

Yont, beyond. 

Yoursel, yourself. 

Yowe, a ewe. 

Yowie, diminutive of yowe. 

Yule, Christmas. 



WITH 

HIS GENERAL, CORRESPONDENCE; 

ALSO 

CRITICISM OJr HIS WRITIJ^GS, 

AND 

OBSERVATIONS ON THE SCOTTISH PEASANTRy, 
BY DR. CURRIE. 



DR. CXTRRIE'S DSDIC^TZOIT. 



OF THE ROYAL NAVY. 



FiH, 



m^ 



When you were stationed on our coast 
about twelve years ago, you first recom- 
mended to my particular notice the poems 
of the Ayrshire ploughman, whose works, 
published for the benefit of his widow and 
children, I now present to you. In a 
distant region of the world, whither the 
service of your country has carried you, 
you will, I know, receive with kindness 
this proof of my regard ; not perhaps 
without some surprise on finding that I 
have been engaged in editing these vo- 
lumes, nor without some curiosity to know 
how I was qualified for such an undertak- 
ing. These points I will briefly explain. 

Having occasion to make an excursion 
to the county of Dumfries, in the sum- 
mer of 1792, I had there an opportunity 
of seeing and conversing with Burns. It 
has been my fortune to know some men 
of nigh reputation in literature, as well as 
in public life ; but never to meet any one 
who, in the course of a single interview, 
communicated to me so strong an impres- 
sion of the force and versatility of his ta- 
lents. After tins I read the poems then 
published with greater interest and atten- 
tion, and with a full conviction that, ex- 
traordinary as they are, they aflx)rd but 
an inadequate proof of the powers of their 
unfortunate author. 

Four years afterwards, Burns termi- 
nated his career. Among those whom 
the charms of his genius had attached to 
him, was one with whom I have been 
bound in the ties of friendship from early 
life — Mr. John Syme of Ryedale. This 
gentleman, after the death of Burns, pro- 
moted with the utmost zeal a subscription 
for the support of the widow and children, 
to which their relief from immediate dis- 
tress is to be ascribed ; and in conjunc- 
tion with other friends of this virtuous 
and destitute family he projected the pub- 
lication of these volumes for their benefit, 
by which the return of want might be pre- 
vented or prolonged. 



To this last undertaking an editor and 
biographer was wanting, and Mr. Syme's 
modesty opposed a barrier to his assum- 
ing an ofiice, for wliich he was in other 
reapects peculiarly qualified. On this 
subject he consulted me! and with the 
hope of surmounting his objections, I of- 
fered him my assistance, but in vain. 
Endeavours were used to procure an edi- 
tor in other quarters without efl^ect. The 
task was beset with considerable difficul- 
ties, and men of established reputation 
naturally declined an undertaking to the 
performance of which, it was scarcely to 
be hoped that general approbation could 
be obtained by any exertion of judgment 
or temper. 

To such an office, my place of residence, 
my accustomed studies, and my occupa 
tions, were certainly little suited ; but 
the partiality of Mr. Syme thought me in 
other respects not unqualified ; and his 
solicitations, joined to those of our excel- 
lent friend and relation, IMrs. Dunlop, and 
of other friends of the family of the poet, 
I have not been able to resist. To re- 
move difficulties which would otherwise 
have been insurmountable, Mr. Syme and 
Mr. Gilbert Burns made a journey to 
Liverpool, where they explained and ar- 
ranged the manuscripts, and selected such 
as seemed worthy of the press. From 
this visit I derived a degree of pleasure 
which has compensated much of my la- 
bour. I had the satisfaction of renewing 
my personal intercourse with a much 
valued friend, and of forming an acquaint- 
ance with a man, closely allied to Burns 
in talents as well as in blood, in whose 
future fortunes the friends of virtue will 
not, I trust, be uninterested. 

The publication of these volumes has 
been delayed by obstacles which these 
gentlemen could neither remove nor fore- 
see, and which it would be tedious to 
enumerate. At length the task is finish- 
ed. If the part which I have taken shall 



DEDICATION. 



Bcrvc the interest of the family, and re- 
ceive the appn)bationofg-ood men, I shall 
have my recompense. The errors into 
which I have fallen are not, I hope, very 
important, and they will be easily ac- 
counted for by those who know the cir- 
cumstances under which this undertaking 
has been performed. Generous minds 
will receive the postlnimous works of 
Burns with candour, and even partiality, 
as the remains of an unfortunate man of 
genius, published for the bcnetit of his 
family — as the stay of the widow and the 
hope of the fatherless. 

To secure the suffrages of such minds, 
all topics are omitted in the wriling-s, and 
avoided in the life of Burns, that have a 
tendency to awaken the animosity of party. 
In perusinjT the following volumes no of- 
fence will be received, except by those to 
whom even the natural erect aspect of 
genius is oflensive ; characters that will 
scarcely be found among taose who are 
educated to the profession of arms. Such 
men do not court situations of danger, or 
tread in the patlis of glory. They will 
not be found in your service, which, in 
our own days, emulates on another ele- 
ment tiie superior fame of the Macedonian 



phalanx, or of the Roman legion, an^ 
wiiich has, lately made the shores of Eu- 
rope and of Africa resound with the shouts 
of victory, from the Texel to the Tagus, 
and from the Tagus to the Nile! 

The works of Burns will be received 
favourably by one wJio stands in the fore- 
most rank of this noble service, and who 
deserves his station. On the land or on 
the sea, I know no man more capable of 
judging of the character or of the writ- 
ings of this original genius. Homer, and 
Shakspeare, and Ossian, cannot always 
occupy your leisure. These volumes 
may sometimes engage your attention, 
while the steady breezes of the tropic 
swell your sails, and in another quarter 
of the earth charm you with the strains 
of nature, or awake in your memory the 
scenes of your early days. Sufl'er me to 
hope that they may sometimes recall to 
your mind the friend who addresses you, 
and who bids you — most affectionately— 
adieu ! 



J. CURRIE. 



Liverpool, \st May, tGOO. 



(OOMl^Iill^^ 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. &c. 



PREFATORY REMARKS. 

ON THE CHARACTER AND CONDITION OF THE 
SCOTTISH PEASANTRY. 

Effects of the legal establishment of parochial 
schools, 1. — Of tho church establishnKnit, 3. 
— Of the absence of poor laws, ib. — Of the 
Scottish music and national songs, 4. — Of 
the laws respecting marriage and inconti- 
nence, 6. — Observations rn the domestic and 
national attachments of tiio Scots, P«ge G 

LIFE OF BURNS. 

Narrative of his infancy and youth, by him- 
self, 10. — Narrative on tho same sul)ioct, by 
his brother, and by Mr. Miirdocli of Lon- 
don, his teacher, 16. — Olhor particulars of 
Burns while resident in Ayrshire, 27. — His- 
tory of Burns while resident in Edinburgli, 
including Letters to tlie Editor fifiin Mr. 
Stewart and Dr. Adair, 35. — History of 
Burns while on the farm of Ellisland, in 
Dumfries-shire .'Jl. — History of Burns while 
resident at Dumfries 54. — H.is last Illnr-ss, 
Death and Character, with general Reflec- 
tions, .... 58 
Memoir respecting Burns, by a Lady, G7 
Criticism on the Writings of Burns, includ- 
ing observations pn poetry in the Scottish 
dialect, and some remarks on Scottish lit- 
erature, .... 70 

GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE. 



LETTERS. 



fTo. 



Paire.. 



To Mr. John Murdoch, Burns's form- 
er teacher; giving an account of his 
present studies, and temper of mind. 

Extracts from MSS. Observations on 
various subjects, . 

N2 



No Page. 

3. To Mr. Aiken. Written under distress 

of mind, . . .95 

4. To Mrs. Dunlop. Thanks for her no- 

tice. Praise of iicr ancestor. Sir 
William Wallace, . . 96 

5. To Mrs. Stewart of Stair. Enclosing 

a poem on Miss A , . . ib. 

6. Proclamation in the Name of the 

Muses, . . . •.97 

7. Dr. Blacklock to the Rev. G. Lowrie. 

Encouraging the bard to visit Edin- 
burgh and print a new edition of his 
poems there, . . . ib, 

8. From the Rev. Mr. Lowrie. Advice 

to the Bard how to conduct himself 
in E(nnl)urgli, . . .98 

9. To Mr. (Chalmers. Praise of Miss 

Burnet of Monboddo, . . ib. 

10. To tho Earl of Kglinton. Thanks for 

his patronage, . . .99 

11. To Mrs. Dunlop. Account of his sit- 

uation in Edinburgh, . • lb, 

12. To Dr. Moore. Grateful acknowledg- 

ments of Dr. M.'s notice of him m 
his letters to Mrs. Dunlop, . 100 

13. From Dr. Moore. In answer to the 

foregoing, and enclosing a sonnet on 
the Bard by IMiss WilHams, . ib. 

14. To the Rev. G. Lowrio. Tiianks for 

advice — rellect ions on his situation — 

compliments paid to Miss L , by 

Mr. Mackenzie, . . .101 

15. To Dr. Moore, . . .102 
IG. P'rorn Dr. Moore. Sends tho Bard a 

present of his " View of Society and 
Manners," &c. . . . ib. 

17. To the Earl of Glcncairn. Grateful 

acknowledgments of kindness, 103 

18. To the Earl of Buchan. h\ reply to a 

letter of advice, . . . ib, 

19. Extract concerning the monument 

erected for Fcrgusson by our Poet, 104 

20. To . Aci".omi)anying the foregoing, 104 

21. Extract from . Good advice, 105 

22. To Mrs. Dunlop. Respecting his pros- 

pects on leaving Edinburgh, , 106 



VI 

No, 
23. 
24. 

25. 

26. 



CONTENTS. 



27. 

28. 
29. 

30. 
31. 

32. 
33. 

34. 
35. 

36. 
37. 

SS. 

39. 

4C. 

41. 
42. 
43. 
44. 

45. 

46. 
47. 

48. 
49 



Page. 

To the same. On the same subject, 106 

To Dr. Mooie. On tlie same subject, 107 

Extract to Mrs. Dunlop. Reply to 
(Jrilicisnis, . . . ib. 

To the Rev. Dr. Blair. Written on 
leaving Edinburgh. Thanks for his 
kindness, . . • ib. 

From Dr. Rlair. In reply to the pre- 
ceding, . . . • 108 

From Dr. Moore. Criticism and good 
advice, .... 109 

To Mr. Walker, at Blair of Athole. 
Enclosing the Humble Petition of 
Bruar water to the Duke of Athole, 110 

To Mr. G. Burns. Account of his 
Tour through the Highlands, , ib. 

From Mr. Ramsay of Ochtertyre. 
Enclosing Latin Inscriptions with 
Translations, and the Tale of Ome- 
ron Cameron, . . . Ill 

Mr. Ramsay to the Rev. W. Young. 
Introducing our Poet, . . 113 

Mr. Ramsay to Dr. Blacklock. Anec- 
dotes of Scottish Songs for our 
Poet, . . . ib. 

From Mr. John Murdoch in London. 
In answer to No. I. . .114 

From Mr. , Gordon Castle. 

Acknowledging a song sent to Lady 
Charlotte Gordon, 

From the Rev. J. Skinner. Some Ac- 
count of Scottish Poems, . 

From Mrs. Rrse. Enclosing Gaehc 
Songs, with the music, . 

To the Earl of Glencairn. Requests 
liis assistance in oettmjr into the Ex- 



ib. 
115 
116 



To , Dalrymple,Esq. Congratula- 
tion on his becoming a poet. Praise 
of Lord Glencairn, 

To Sir .lohn Whitefoord. Thanks for 
friendship. Rejections on the po- 
etical character, . 

To Mrs. Duidop. Written on recov- 
ery from sickness. 

Extract to the Same. Defence of him- 
self, .... 

To the Same — who had heard that ho 
had ridiculed her, 

To Mr. Cleghorn. Mentioning his 
having composed the first stanza of 
the Chevalier's Lament, . 

From Mr. Cleghorn. In reply to the 
above. The Chevalier's Lament m 
full, in a note. 

To JNlrs. Dunlop. Giving an account 
of his prospects, . 

From the Rev. J. Skinner. Enclos- 
ing two songs, one by himself, the 
other by a Buchan ploughman : the 
songs printed at large, 

To Professor D. Stuart. Thanks for 
his fricndsliip, . 

E.xtract to Mrs. Dunlop. Remarks 
on Dryden's Virgil, and Pope's 
Odyssey, 



117 



ib. 



118 
ib. 
119 



ib. 



ib. 



ib. 
120 



ib. 
122 



ib. 



Reflections on human 



No. Page, 

50. To the same. General Reflections, 1212 

51. To tile Same, at Mr. Dunlop's, Had- 

dington. Account of his marriage, 

52. To Mr. P. Hill. With a present of 

cheese, .... 

53. To Mrs. Dunlop. With Ibies on a licr- 

mitage, .... 

54. To the Same. Farther account of his 

marriage, 

55. To the Same. 

life, 

56. To R. Graham, Esq. of Fintry. A pe- 

tition in verse for a situation in tiie 
Excise, . 

57. ToMr. P. Hill. Criticism on a poem, 

entitled, 'An address to Locli-Lo- 
mond,' . . . 

58. To Mrs. Dunlop, at Moreliam Mains, 129 

59. To ****. Defence of the Family of 

the Stuarts. Baseness of insulting 
fallen greatness, . 

60. To Mrs. Dunlop. With the soldier's 

song — " Go fetch to me a pint of 
wine,'' 

61. To Miss Davies, a young Lady, who 

had heard he had been making a bal- 
lad on her, enclosing that ballad, 

62. From Mr. G. Burns. Reflections sug- 

gested by New Year's Day, 

63. To Mrs. Dunlop. Reflections suggest- 

ed by New Year's Day, . 

64. To Dr. JMoore. Accomit of his situ- 

ation and prospects, 

65. To Professor D. Stewart, Enclosing 

poems for his criticism, , 

66. To Bishop Geddes. Account of his si- 

tuation and prospects, 

67. From the Rev. P. Carfrae. Request- 

ing advice as to the publishing Mr. 
Mylne's poems, 

68. To Mrs. Dunlop. Reflections after a 

visit to Edinburgh, 

69. To the Rev. P. Carfrae. In answer to 

No. 67. . 

70. To Dr. Moore. Enclosing a poem, 

71. To Mr. Hill. Apostrophe to Fru- 

gality, . 

72. To Mrs. Dunlop. With a sketch of 

an opistic in verse to the Right Hon. 
C. .]. Fox, 

73. To Mr. Cunningham. With the first 

draught of the poem on a wounded 
Hare, .... 

74. From Dr. Gregory. Criticism of the 

poem on a wounded Hare, 

75. To Mr. M'Auley of Dumbarton. Ac- 

count of his situation, 

76. To Mrs. Dunlop. Reflections on Re- 

ligion, . , .• . 

77. From Dr. Moore. Good advice, 
76. From Miss J. Little. A poetess in 

humble life, with a poem in praise 
of our Bard, 

79. From INIr. ******. Some account of 

Fergusson, . . .143 

80. To Mr. ***=*:**. In answer, . 1 44 



125 

ib. 
124 
125 
126 

127 

128 



ib. 
131 

ib 
132 

ib. 
133 
134 

ib 

135 

136 

ib. 
137 

138 

139 

ib. 

140 

ib. 

141 
ib. 

142 



CONTENTS. 



No. Page 

f]\. To Miss Williams. Enclosing a criti - 

citjin on a poem of liers, . 
32. From Miss W. In reply to tlie fore- 
going, .... 

83. To Mrs. Dunlop. Praise of Zeluco, 

84. From Dr. Blacklock. An epistle in 

verse, .... 

85. To Dr. Blacklock. Poetical reply to 

the above, 

8G. To R. Graham, Esq. Enclosing 
some electioneering ballads, . 

67. To Mrs. Dunlop. Serious and inter- 
esting. reflections, 

88. To Sir John Sinclair. Account of a 

book society among the farmers in 
Nilhsdale, 

89. To CharlcsSharpe, Esq. ofHoddam. 

Under a fictitious signature, enclos- 
ing a ballad, . . 

90. To Mr. G. Bums. With a prologue, 

spoken on the Dumfries Theatre, 

91. To Mrs. Dunlop. Some account of 

Falconer, author of the Ship- 
wreck, 

92. From Mr. Cunningham. Inquiries 

after our Bard, 

93. To Mr. Cunningham. In reply to the 

above, 

94. To Mr. Hill. Orders for books, 

95. To Mrs. Dunlop. Remarks on the 

Lounger, and on the writings of 
Mr. Mackenzie, 
9G. From Mr. Cunningham. Account of 
the death of Miss Burnet of Mon- 
boddo, .... 

97. To Dr. Moore. Thanks for a present 

of Zeluco, 

98. To Mrs. Dunlop. Written under 

wounded pride, 

99. To Mr. Cunningham. Aspirations 

after independence, 
iOO. From Dr. Blacklock. Poetical let- 
ter of friendship, 

101. Extract from Mr. Cunningham. 

Suggesting subjects for our Poet's 
muse, .... 

102. To Mrs. Dunlop. Congratulations 

on the birth of her grandson, 

103. To Mr. Cunningham. With an 

elegy on Miss Burnet, of Mon- 
boddo, 

104. To Mr. Hill. Indignant apostro- 

phe to Poverty, 

105. From A. F. Tytler, Esq. Criticism 

on Tarn o'Shanter, 

106. To A. F. Tytler, Esq. In reply 

to the above, 

107. To Mrs. Dunlop. Enclosing his 

elegy on Miss Burnet, 

108. To Lady W. M. Constable. Ac- 

knowledging a present of a snuff 
bo.K, .... 

109. To Mrs. Graham of Fintry. Enclos- 

ing ' Queen Mary's Lament,' 

110. From the Rev. G. Baird. Request- 

ing assistance in publishin"' the 
poems of Michael Bruce, . ib. 



144 

145 

ib. 

146 
ib. 
ib. 

147 



148 



149 
150 



ib. 

152 

ib. 
153 



154 



155 
156 

ib. 
157 

ib. 



158 
ib. 



1G2 



vu 

Page. 
In reply to 



No. 

111. To the Rev. G. Baird 

the above, 

112. To Dr. Moore. Enclosing Tam o' 

Shanter, &c. . . 

113. From Dr. Moore. With Remarks 

on Tam o' Shanter, &c. 

114. To the Rev. A. Alison. Acknow- 

ledging his present of the ' Essays 
on the Principles of Taste,' with 
remarks on the book, . 

115. To Mr. Cunningham. With a Ja- 

cobite song, &c., 

116. To. Mrs. Dunlop. Comparison be- 

tween female attractions in high 
and humble life, 

117. To Mr. . Reflections on his own 

indolence, 

118. To Mr. Cunningham. Requesting 

his interest for an oppressed friend, 

119. From the Earl of Buchan. Inviting 

over our bard to the Coronation of 
the Bust of Thomson on Ednam 
Hill, .... 

120. To the Earl of Buchan. In reply, 

121. From the Earl of Buchan. Propos- 

ing a subject for our poet's muse, 

122. To Lady E. Cunningham. Enclos- 

ing ' The Lament for James, Earl 
of Glencairn,' 

123. To Mr. Ainslic. State of his muid 

after inebriation, 

124. From Sir John Whitefoord. Thanks 

for ' The Lament for James, Earl 
of Glencairn,' 

125. From A. F. Tytler, Esq. Criticism 

on the Whistle and the Lament, 

126. To Miss Davies. Apology for ne- 

glecting her commands — moral re- 
flections, . . . 

127. To Mrs. Dunlop. Enclosmg ' The 

Song of Death,' 

128. To Mrs. Dunlop. Acknowledgmg 

the present of a cup, 

129. To Mr. William Smellie. Lntroduc- 

ing Mrs. Riddel, 

130. To Mr. W. Nicol. Ironical thanlis 

for advice, 

131. To Mr. Cunningham. Commissions 

his arms to be cut on a seal — moral 
reflections, 

132. To Mrs. Dunlop. Account of his 

meeting with Miss L B 

and enclosing a song on her, 

133. To JMr. Cunningham. Wild apos- 

trophe to a Spirit! 

134. To Mrs. Dunlop. Account of his 

family, 

135. To Mrs, Dunlop. Letter of condo- 

lence under afiliction, 

136. To Mrs. Dunlop. With a poem, 

entitled ' The Rights of Woman,' 

137. To Miss B of York. Letter of 

friendship, 

138. To Miss C . Chaj-acter and tem- 

perament of a poet- 

139. To John M'Murdo, Esq. Repay- 

big money, . , 



163 
ib. 
164 



165 
166 



ib. 
167 

ib. 



168 
ib. 

^69 



170 
ib. 



171 
172 
173 



174 



ib. 



175 
176 
178 
179 

ib. 
180 

ih. 
181 



No. 
140. 



CONTENTS. 



Pace. 

To Mrs. R . Advising licr wliat 

play to bespeak lit llio DuiiilVies 
Tlioalro, . . . Itil 

141 To a Lady, in favour of a Player's 

Bciiolit, . . . 182 

142. Extract to Mr. . On Iiis pros- 

piH'ts ill tlio l'j.\ciso. . . il). 

143. To Mrs. R , . . il). 

144. To tlio Same. Describing his melan- 

choly feelings, . . . 183 

145. To the Same. Lending Wcrtcr, ib. 
14G. 'Po the same. On u return of inter- 

nqited friendship, . . ib. 

147. To tiio Same. On a temporary 

oslrangcnient, . . . ib. 

148. To Jolni Syme, Esq. Rctlectionson 

the happiness of ftlr. O , . IS 1 

149. To Miss . llecj nesting the re- 

turn of MSS. lent to a deceased 
friond, . . . ib. 

150. To Mr. Cunningham. Melanclioly 

reiloctioiis — cheering prospects of 

a hap[)ier world, . .' 185 

151. To Mrs. R . Supposed to bo 

written from ' The dead to the liv- 
ing,' . . . . 18G 
i52. To ]Mrs. Dnnlop. Reflections on 
the situation of his fanuly if ho 
siiould dii; — jiraiso of tlio poom en- 
titled ^ The Task,' . . 187 

153. To the Same, in London, . ib. 

154. To Mi-s. K . Thanks for tlio 

Travels of Anacharsi.<, . . 188 

155. To Mrs. Dunlop. Account of tho 

Death of hi.-^ Daughter, and of his 
own ill hcallh, . . .189 

15G. To Mrs. 11 . Apology for not 

going to the birth-night assenibh', ib. 

157. To Mr. Cunningliani. Account of 

his illness anil of his poverty — an- 
ticipation of his death, . . ib. 

158. To Mi-s. Burns. Sea-bathing af- 

fords little relief, . . 190 

159. To Mrs. Dunlop. Last farewell, ib. 



COURESPONDENCE BETWEEN MR. THOMSON 
ANU MR. BURNS. 



1. Mr. Thomson, to Mr. Burns. Do- 

siring the bard to furnish verses 
for some of tho Scottish airs, and to 
revise former songs, 

2. Mr. 15. to. Mr. T. 

sistance, . 

3. Mr. T. to Mr. B. 

tunes, 

4. Mr. B. to Mr. T. 

Rig,' and ' Will yo go to tlio Indies 
my Marv,' 

5. .Mr. R.ToMr.T. AVith 'My wife's a 

winsome wee thinir,' and 'O saw 
ye bonnie Leslie,' . . 



Promising as- 
Sending somo 
With 'The Lea 



191 
192 
193 

ib. 

195 



Paob. 

Witli 'Iligliland 

. 195 

lb 
196 
197 

ib. 



No. 
G. Mr. B. to Mr. 

Mary,' . 

7. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Thanks and critical 

observations, 

8. Mr. B. to Mr. T. With an addi- 

tional slan/.a to ' Tho Lea liig,' 

9. Mr. B. to Mr. T. With ' Auld Rob 

Morris,' and 'Duncan Clray, 

10. Mr. B. to Mr. T. With ' O Poortitli 

Cauld,' k.0. and "'(.ialla \Valcr,' 

11. Mr. T. toMr. B. Desiring anecdotes 

on tho origin of particular songs. 
I'ytlcr of W'ooiihousclce — Pleylt — 
sends r. Pindar's 'Lord tJrcgory.' 
— Postscript from tho Honourable 
A. Erskino, . . . ib. 

12. Mr. B. to Mr.T. Has ]Mr. Tyller's 

anecdotes, and means to give his 
own — Sends his own ' LordOregoiy, 193 

13. Mr. B. to Mr. T. With 'Mary 

Morrison,' . . .199 

14. Ml'. B. to Mr. T. 'With ' Wandering 

Willie,' . . . ib. 

15. INlr. B. to INIr. T. With 'Open tho 

door to me, oh !' . . 200 

IG. Mr. B. to Mr. 'P. With ' .lossy,' ib. 

17. Rlr. T. to Mr. B. With a list ol'songs, 

and ' Wandering \\ illie' altered, ib. 

18. Mr. B. to Mr. 'P. ' \\ hen wild war's 

deadly blast was blawn,' and ' Meg 
o'thelNlill,' . . . ib. 

19. Mr. B. to Mr.T. VoicoofCoila— Cri- 

ticism — Origin of ' Tho Lass o' 
Patio's Mill,^ . . .201 

20. Mr. T,^ to Mr. B. . . . 2U2 

21. Mr. B. to JMr. T. Simplicity requisito 

in a song — One poet should not 
mangle the works of another, . ib. 

22. Mr. B. to Mr. T. 'Farewell thou 

stream that winding flows.' — Wishes 
that tho national nnisic may preserve 
its native features, . . 203 

23. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Thanks and obser- 

vations, . . . .204 

24. Mr. B. to Mr. T. With ' Blithe liae I 

been on yon hill,' . . ib. 

25. Mr. B. to Mr. T. With 'O Logan 

sweetly didst thou glide,' ' O gin 
my love were yon red rose,' &c. 205 

26. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Enclosing a note — 

Thanks, . . . ib. 

27. Mr. B. to Mr. T. With ' There was a 

lass and she was fair,' . . 206 

28. Mr. B. to Mr. T. Hurt at the idea of 

pecuniary recompense — Remarks 

on songs, . . . ib. 

29. Mr. T. to INIr. B. Musical expression Oil? 

30. l\lr. B. to Mr. 'i'. For Mr. Clarke, lo. 

31. JMr. B. to Mr. T. WiUi ' PhiUis tho 

Fair,' . . . . ib. 

32. Mr. T. to Mr. B. IMr. Allan— draw- 

ing from ' .li.hn Anderson my Jo,' 208 

33. Mr. B. to Mr. T. With 'Had 1 a 

cave,' Sec. — Some airs ccminou to 
Scotland and Ireland, . ib. 



CONTENTS. 



No. Page. 

34. Mr. B. To. Mr. T. With ' By Allan 

stream 1 chanced to rove,' 

35. Mr. B. to Mr. T. With ' Wliistle and 

rU come to you my lad,' and ' Awa 
vri' your belies and your Leauties,' 
3G. Mr. B. to Mr. T. With ' Come let 
me take tiice to mv breast,' 

37. Mr. B. to Mr. T. ''Dainty Davie,' 

38. Mr. T. to Mr. B. DelifrJited with the 

productions of Burns's muse, 

39. Mr. B. to Mr. T. With ' Bruce to his 

troops at Bannockburn,' 

40. Mr. B. to Mr. T. With ' Behold the 

hour, the boat arrive,' 

41. Mr. 'J', to Mr. B. Observations on 

' Bruce to his troops,' 

42. Mr. ]{. to Mr. T. Remarks on songa 

in Mr. T's. list — His own method of 
forming a song — ' Thou hast left me 
ever, .Jamie' — ' Where are the joys I 
hao met in the morning,' ' Auld lang 
sync', .... 

43. Mr. B. to Mr. T. With a variation of 

' Bannockburn,' . 

44. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Thanks and obser- 

vations, .... 

45. Mr. B. to Mr. T. On ' Bannockburn' 

— sends ' Fair Jenny,' 
4G. Mr. B. to Mr. T. With ' Deluded 
swain, the pleasure' — Remarks, 

47. Mr. B. to Mr. T. With ' Thine am I, 

my faithful fair,' — ' O condescend 
dear charming maid' — ' 1'he Night- 
' ingale' — ' Laura' — (the three last by 

G. 'I'urnbuU) 

48. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Apprehensions — 

Thanks, . . . ' . 

49. Mr. B. to Mr. T. With ' Husband, 

husband, cease your strife I' and 
' Wilt thou be my dearie.'" 

50. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Melancholy com- 

parison between Burns and Carlini 

Mr. Allan has begun a sketch 

from the Cotter's Saturday Night, 

51. Mr. B. to Mr. T. Praise of Mr. Al- 

lan — ' Banks of Crec,' 

52. Mr. B. to Mr. T. Pleyel in France 

— ' Here, where the Scottish muse 
immortal lives,' presented to Miss 
Graham of Fintry, with a, copy of 
Mr. Thomson's Collection, 

53. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Docs not expect 

to hear from Pleyel soon, but desires 
to be prepared with the poetry 

54. Mr. B. to Mr. T. With ' On the seas 

and far away,' . . , 

S.'i. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Criticism, 

56. Mr. B. to Mr. T. With ' Ca' the 

yowes to the knowcs,' 

57. Mr, B. to Mr. T. With ' She says she 

lo'es me best of a',' — ' O let me in,' 
&c. — Stanza to Dr. Ma.\well, 

58 Mr. T. to Mr. B. Advising liim to write 
a Musical Drama, 

59. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Has been ex- 
amining Scottish collections — Rit- 
Bon — Difficult to obtain ancient me- 
lodies ui their original state . 



209 



ib. 

ib. 
210 

ib. 

ib. 

211 

ib. 



212 
214 
ib. 
215 
216 



ib. 

218 



ib. 



219 



ib. 

ib. 
220 

ib. 



ib. 
221 



222 



61. 



62. 



Mr. B. to Mr. T. Recipe for pro- 
ducing a !ovf>-song — ' Saw ye my 
Phely — Remarkw and anecdotes-^ 
' How long and dreary is tiie night' 
— ' Let not woman e'er complain 
— ' The Lover's morning Salute to 
his Mistress' — ' The Auld man' — 
' Keen blows the wind o'er Donocht- 
head,' in a note, . . . ib., 

Mr. T. to Mr. B. Wishes ho knew 
the inspiring fair one — Ritson's His- 
torical Essay not interesting — Allan 
— Maggie Lawder, . . 224 

Mr. B. to. Mr. T. Has begun his 
Anecdotes, &c. ' My Chloris mark 
how green the groves' — Love — ' It 
was the charming month of May' — 
•■ Lassie wi' the lint-white locks' — 
History of the air ' Ye Banks and 
braes o' bonnie Doon' — James Mil- 
ler — Clarke — The black keys — In- 
stances of the difficulty of tracing 
the origin of ancient airs, . 225 

Mr. T. to Mr. B. With three copies 
of the Scottish airs, . . 227 

Mr. B. to Mr. T. With ' O Philly 
happy be that day' — Starting note 
— ' Contented wi' little and cantio 
wi' niair' — ' Canst thou leave me 
thus, my Katy .^'— (The Reply, ' Stay 
my Willie, yet believe me,' in a note) 
— Slock and horn, . . ib. 

Mr. T. to Mr. B. Praise — Desires 
more songs of the humorous cast — 
Means to have a picture from ' The 
Soldier's return,' . . 229 

Mr. 13. to Mr. T. With 'My Nan- 
nie's awa,' . . . 230 

Mr. B. to Mr. T. With ' For a' 
that an' a' that' and ' Sweet fa's 
the eve on Craigie-burn,' . ib, 

Mr. T. to Mr. B. Thanks, . ib. 

Mr. B. to Mr. T. ' O lassie, art thou 
sleeping yet .^' and the Answer, 231 

Mr. B. to Mr. T. Dispraise of 
Ecclefochan, . . . ib. 

Mr. T. to Mr. B. Thanks, . ib. 

Mr. B. to Mr. T. 'Address to the 
Woodlark' — ' On Chloris' being ill' 
— ' Their groves o' sweet myrtle,' 
&c. — ' 'Twas na her bonnie blue e'e,' 
fee, . . . . ib. 

Mr. T. to Mr. B. With Allan's de- 
sign from ' The Cotter's Saturday 
Night,' . . . .232 

Mr. B. to Mr. T. With 'How cruel 
are the parents,' and ' Mark yonder 
pomp of costly fashion,' . . ib. 

Mr. B. to Mr. T. Thanks for Al- 
lan's designs, . . . ib. 

Mr. T. to Mr. B. Compliment, . 233 

Mr. B. to Mr. T. With an improve- 
ment in ' Whistle and Til come to 
;'ou my lad,' — ' O this is no my ain 
assie,' — *■ Now spring has clad the 
grove in green' — ' O bormie was 
yon rosy brier' — ' 'Tis Friendship's 
pledge my young, fair Friend,' . ib 



CONTENTS. 



No. Page. 

7a Mr. T. to Mr. 11, Iiilroiliicin<j Dr. 

HriHiiluii, . . . 234 

79. Mr. IJ. to Mr. T. 'Forlorn my 

*ov(\ no eomCort tinar,' . . ib. 

80. Mr. H. to Mr. T. ' LaHt May a braw 

wiioor cam down tlio lanjr jrlon'^ 
' Why, wliy toll thy lovor,' a IVag- 
nuMil, .... il>. 
PI. Mr. 'r. to Mr. B., . . .235 

8-J. Mr. T. to Mr. B. ARor an awful 

)):iiiso, . . . . ib. 

83. Mr. B. to Mr. T. Thaiilw lor P. Pin- 

dar, (fcc. — ' Hoy I'or a lass wi' a to- 
ciuir,' . . . ib. 

84. Mr. T. to Mr. B. Allan has designed 

Honio plates for an octavo odition, ib. 

85. Mr. B. to Mr. T. AlUir.ted by sick- 

ness, but ploasod wiUi Mr, Alliurs 
etcliiiiys, .... 23G 

86. Mr. 'I', to Mr. B. Sympathy, on- 

courajfement, . . • ib. 

87. Mr. n. to Mr. T. With ' Hero's a 

health to nno 1 lo'o dear,' . ib. 

88. Mr. B. to Mr. 'l\ Introducing Mr. 

J.cwars — Hat! taken a fancy to ro- 
viow his songs — Hoi)es to rocovor, 237 



No, Page. 

8a. Mr. B. to Mr. T. Dreading llio hor- 
rors of a Jail, Hiilicils tho advance of 
fivo pounds, and encloses ' Fairest 
Maid on Devon baniis,' . . ib> 

90. Mr. T, to Mr, B. Sympathv— Ad- 
vises a volnmo of ])oetry to be pul)- 
lished by subscription — -Pope pub- 
lished the Iliad so, . . ib. 

Letter containing some |)arliculnrs of tho 
History of tho foregoing I'ooms, by 
Gilbert Burns, . . 23-! 

Letter to Captain Grose, . 24:2 



APPENDIX. 



No. T 245 

No. II. Including an extract of a Poem 

addressed to Hums by Mr. Telford, 248 

No. Hi. iiOtter from Mr. Gilbert Burns to 
the Fiditor, approving of iiis Life of his 
BrotluT; with observations on the ef- 
fects of nifmement of tasto on tho la- 
bouring classes of men, . . 359 



a>mffi3^AT(^^.T miiMAm:^^ 



TO THE LIFE 



ROBEllT BURNS. 



Thourh the (lialoct in which many of 
the happiest eflutjions of IIohkut Uuiins 
are composed be peculiar to Scotland, yet 
his rf'piitation has extended ityelf beyond 
the limits of that country, and bis poetry 
has been admired as the ollspring of origi- 
nal genius, by persons of taste in every 
part of the sister islands. The interest 
excited by his early death, and the dis- 
tress of )ii;i infant family, have been felt in 
a reniarka])le manner wherever liis writ- 
ings have bi.'cn known : and tliCEC postbu- 
rnoiis volumi'S, which give to the world his 
works complete, and which, it is hoped, 
may raise his widow and children from 
penury, arc printed and published in Eng- 
land. It seems proper, therefore, to write 
the memoirs of his lifi;, not with the view 
of their being read by Scotchmen only, 
but also by natives of England, and of 
other countries where the English lan- 
guage is spoken or underatood. 

Robert Burns was, in reality, what lie 
has been represented to be, a Sciottish pea- 
sant. To render the incidents of his hum- 
ble story generally intelligible, it seems, 
therefore, advisable to prefix some obser- 
vations on the character and situation of 
the order to which he belonged — a class 
of men distingiiished by many peculiari- 
ties . by this means we shall form a more 
correct notion of the advantages with 
which he started, and of the obstacles 
which he surmounted. A faw obeerva- 
tif)n& on the Scottish peasantry will not, 
perhaps, be found unworthy of attention 
in otber respects; and the subject is, in a 
great measure, new. Scotland hiis pro- 
duced persons of high distinction in every 
branch of pbilosopliy and literature; and 
h'-T history, while a separate and inde- 
Dendent nation, has been successfully ex- 



plored. But tlie present chnractcr of the 
people was not then formed ; the nation 
tlKMi present(!d features similar to tliose 
which the feudal system and the colholic 
religicm had diliu.sed ov(!r Europe.', modi- 
fied, indee'd, by the peculiar nature of her 
t(,'rritory and cliuiate. 'J'he Rc'formation, 
by which such important changes were 
produced on the nal.ional cliaracter, was 
spec.'dily followed by the accession cjf the 
Scottish monarcliK to the English throne ; 
and the period which ehipsed from that 
accession to the Union, has iieen render- 
ed memorable, chiefly, by those bloody 
convulsions m wliich both di visions of the 
island were involved, and which, in a con- 
siflerable degree, concealed from the eye 
of the liistorian the domestic history of 
the people, and the gradual variations in 
their condition and manners. Since the 
Union, Scotland, though the seat of two 
unsuccessful att(;mp1s to restore the 
House of Stuart to the throne, has en- 
joyed a comparative tranquillity; and it 
is since this period that the })reHent cha- 
racter of her peasantry iias biien in a 
great measure formed, though the politi- 
cal causes affecting it are to be traced to 
the previous acts of lier separate legisla- 
ture. 

A slight acquaintance with the pea- 
santry of Scotland will serve to convince 
an unprejudiced observer, that they pos- 
sess a degree of intelligence not giMieral- 
ly found among the same class of men in 
the other countries of Europe. In the 
very humblest condition of the Scottish 
peasants, every one can read, and most 
persons are more or less skilled in writ 
ing and arithmetic ; and, under tiie dis- 
guise of their uncouth appearance, and of 
tlieir pccuUar manners and dialect, a 



2 



PREFATORY REMARKS. 



stranger will discover that they possess a 
curiosity, and have obtained a degree of 
information, correspoadmg to these ac- 
quirements. 

These advantages they owe to the le- 
gal provision made by the parliament of 
Scotland in 1646, for the establishment of 
a school in every parish throughout the 
kingdom, for the express purpose of edu- 
cating the poor : a law which may chal- 
lenge comparison with any act of legisla- 
tion to be found in the records of history, 
whether we consider the wisdom of the 
ends in view, the simplicity of the means 
employed, or the provisions made to ren- 
der these means effectual to their pur- 
pose. This excellent statute was repeal- 
ed on the accession of Charles II. in 
1660, together with all the other laws 
passed during the commonwealth, as not 
being sanctioned by the royal assent. It 
slept during the reigns of Charles and 
James, but was re-enacted, precisely in 
the same terms, by the Scottish parlia- 
ment after the revolution, in 1696; and 
this is the last provision on the subject. 
Its effects on the national character may 
be considered to have commenced about 
the period of the Union ; and doubtless it 
co-operated with the peace and security 
arising from that happy event, in produ- 
chig the extraordinary change in favour 
of industry and good morals, which the 
character of the common people of Scot- 
land has since undergone.* 

The church-establishment of Scotland 
nappily coincides with the institution just 
mentioned, which may be called its school 
establishment. The clergyman being ev- 
ery where resident in his particular par- 
ish, becomes the natural patron and super- 
intendent of the parish school, and is en- 
abled in various ways to promote the com- 
fort of the teacher, and the proficiency of 
the scholars. The teacher himself is 
often a candidate for holy orders, who, 
during the long course of study and pro- 
bation required in the Scottish church, 
renders the time which can be spared from 
his professional studies, useful to others 
as well as to himself, by assuming the re- 
spectable character of a schoolmaster. It 
is common for the established schools, 
even in the country parishes of Scotland, 
to enjoy the means of classical instruc- 
tion ; and many of the farmers, and some 
even of the cottagers, submit to much 

• Sea Appendix, No. I. Ni)te A. 



privation, that they may obtain, for one 
of their sons at least, the precarious ad- 
vantage of a learned education. The dif- 
ficulty to be surmounted arises, indeed, 
not from the expense of instructing their 
children, but from the charge of support- 
ing them. In the country parish schools, 
the English language, writing, and ac- 
counts, are generally taught at the rate 
of six shillings, and Latin at the rate of 
ten or twelve shillings per annum. In 
the towns the prices are somewhat higher. 

It would be improper in this place to 
inquire minutely into the degree of in- 
struction received at these seminaries, or 
to attempt any precise estimate of its ef- 
fects, either on the individuals who are 
the subjects of this instruction, or on the 
community to which they belong. That 
it is on the whole favourable to industry 
and morals, though doubtless with some 
individual exceptions, seems to be proved 
by the most striking and decisive appear- 
ance ; and it is equally clear, that it is 
the cause of that spirit of emigration and 
of adventure so prevalent among the 
Scotch. Knowledge has, by Lord Veru- 
1am, been denominated power ; by others 
it has with less propriety been denomina- 
ted virtue or happiness : we may with 
confidence consider it as motion. A hu- 
man being, in proportion as he is inform- 
ed, has his wishes enlarged, as well as 
the means of gratifying those wishes. 
He may be considered as taking within 
the sphere of his vision a large portion of 
the globe on which we tread, and disco- 
vering advantage at a greater distance 
on its surface. His desires or ambition, 
once excited, are stimulated by his ima- 
gination ; and distant and uncertain ob- 
jects, giving freer scope to the operation 
of this faculty, often acquire, in the mind 
of the youthful adventurer, an attraction 
from their very distance and uncertainty. 
If, therefore, a greater degree of instruc- 
tion be given to the peasantry of a coun- 
try comparatively poor, in the neighbour- 
hood of other countries rich in natural 
and acquired advantages ; and if the bar- 
riers be removed that kept them separate, 
emigration from the former to the lattei 
will take place to a certain extent, by 
laws nearly as uniform as those by which 
heat diffuses itself among surrounding 
bodies, or water finds its level when lef> 
to its natural course. By the articles of 
the Union, the barrier was broken down 
which divided the two British nations, 
and knowledge and poverty poured the 



PREFATORY REMARKS. 



adventurous natives of the north over the 
fertile plains of England; and more espe- 
cially, over the colonies which she had 
settled in the east and west. The stream 
of population continues to flow from the 
north to the south ; for the causes that 
originally impelled it continue to operate; 
and the richer country is constantly in- 
vigorated by the accession of an informed 
and hardy race of men, educated in po- 
verty, and prepared for hardship and dan- 
gler ; patient of labour, and prodigal of 
life.* 

The preachers of the Reformation in 
Scotland were disciples of Calvin, and 
brought with them the temper as well as 
the tenets of that celebrated heresiarch. 
The presbyterian form of worship and of 
church government was endeared to the 
people, from its being established by 
themselves. It was endeared to them, 
also, by the struggle it had to maintain 
witli the Cathohc and the Protestant epis- 
copal churches ; over both of which, after 
a hundred years of fierce and sometimes 
bloody contention, it finally triumphed, 
receiving the countenance of government, 
and the sanction of law. During this 
long period of contention and of sutTering, 
the temper of the people became more 
and more obstinate and bigoted : and the 
nation received that deep tinge of fanati- 
cism which coloured their public transac- 
tions, as well as their private virtues, 
and of which evident traces may be found 
in our own times. When the public 
schools were established, the instruction 
communicated in them partook of the re- 
ligious character of the people. The 
Catechism of the Westminster Divines 
was the universal school-book, and was 
put into the hands of the young peasant 
as soon as he had acquired a knowledge 
of his alphabet ; and his first exercise in 
tlie art of reading introduced him to the 
most mysterious doctrines of the Chris- 
tian faith. This practice is continued in 
our own times. After the Assembly's 
Catechism, the Proverbs of Solomon, and 
the New and Old Testament, follow in 
regular succession ; and the scholar de- 
parts, gifted with the knowledge of the 
sacred writings, and receiving their doc- 
trines according to the interpretation of 
the Westminster Confession of Faith. 
Thus, with the instruction of infancy in 
ihe schools of Scotland are blended the 
dogmas of the national church ; and hence 

* Sor Apppiulix, No. I, Note B. 
(> 



the first and most constant exercise of 
ingenuity among the peasantry of Scot- 
laud is displayed in religious disputation. 
With a strong attaclmient to the na- 
tional creed, is conjoined a bigoted pre- 
ference of certain forms of worship ; the 
source of which could be often altogether 
obscure, if v/e did not recollect that the 
ceremonies of the Scottish Church were 
framed in direct opposition, in every 
poiiit, to those of the church of Rome. 

The eccentricities of conduct, and sin- 
gularities of opinion and manners, which 
characterized the English sectaries in the 
last century, aflx)rded a subject for the 
comic muse of Butler, whose pictures lose 
their interest, since their archetypes are 
lost. Some of the peculiarities common 
among the more rigid disciples of Cal- 
vinism in Scotland, in the present times, 
have given scope to the ridicule of Burns, 
whose humour is equal to Butler's, and 
whose drawings from living manners are 
singularly expressive and exact. Unfor- 
tunately the correctness of his taste did 
not always correspond v/itli the strength 
of his genius ; and hence some of the 
most exquisite of his comic productions 
are rendered unfit for the light.* 

The information and the religious edu- 
cation of the peasantry of Scotland, pro- 
mote sedateness of conduct, and habits 
of thought and reflection. — These good 
qualities are not counteracted, by the es- 
tablishment of poor laws, which while 
they reflect credit on the benevolence, 
detract from the wisdom of the English 
legislature. To make a legal provision 
for the inevitable distresses of the poor, 
who by age or disease are rendered inca- 
pable of labour, may indeed seem an in- 
dispensable duty of society ; and if, in 
the execution of a plan for this purpose, 
a distinction could be mtroduced, so as 
to exclude from its benefits those whose 
suff*erings are produced by idleness or 
profligacy, such an institution would per- 
haps be as rational as humane. But to 
lay a general tax on property for the sup- 
port of poverty, from whatever cause pro- 
ceeding, is a measure full of danger. It 
must operate in a considerable degree as 
an incitement to idleness, and a discour- 
agement to industry. It takes away from 
vice and indolence the prospect of their 

* Holy Willie's Prayer ; Rob the Rhymer's WpI 
come to his Bastard Child ; Epistle to J. Gowdie ; tha 
Holy Tulzie, &c. 



4 rKKF.\'lH>lJ 

iiio'il ilii>iiili'«l coiisiMHiiMU'cn, tinil tVom 
virtue mill iMiluslry llioir |>iMMiliiir nmiic- 
tionH. Iiniwinv i'lisoM il imisl londer llic 
riwo in tilt' |>\i*'0 o('li\ln»\ir. uol i» Itlcssiujv. 
Iml II (Mii'MO to (III' hiliouicr ; who. illlwn' 
he HH t'Xi'i'Hwin wliiit lie eiinis lieyoiul liis 
iiiiiueiliiile necessilieH, iiiiiy be expeeleii 
til ileviile lliiM exeesH to \\\i* |M'eHeiit ['.vnli- 
fioMlioii; ti'ii,«itiiiii' to llie |>ro\ isioii iiKitie 
liy liuv lor lii!« own niid liin liiiMily'H sup- 
port, kIivuiIiI (lisens«i Husjieud, or detuli 
tei'UiiUiile liiM liihoui'!*. Ilniiiiily, iu Seel- 
hind, tlie stnue lejiislnture wliieli estiili- 
lislietl It sywteni oT iustruetiou lor I lie 
poor, re.vi!»teil tlie lutroiluetion of ti le}>nl 
prvuixion I'or tlie support ol' poverty ; tlie 
esfiililisliuieuf of tlie (irst. tuul (lie rejee- 
tioii ol' tlie lust, were eipiiilly tiivoiuiiMe 
to industry niul ^ytwA luonils ; luid lieuee 
it will not iippeiir siirpvisiuji', iftlie-Seol- 
lisli peiismitrv litive ii more (linn iisuiil 
pliiire ol' pniiieiiee iviid re(lee(iou. il' they 
npiironeh uetirer tluin |>ersons ol" (heir 
order iisunlly dv», to (lu' deliiiition ol' n 
nitui. (liii( ol" " n heinj;' (liii( looks hel'ore 
niid tiOer." These ohservnl ions nnisl in- 
deed he (akeu wi(li nitmy exeepdons ; 
the (iivoiiriihle opertition of the etiuses 
jnst nieutioned is oiMinlersieted l»y «>tlierN 
vit'nn opposite tendeney ; mid tliesnhjeet, 
it'lnlly exiiuiiiied, would letid to «iisous- 
sions ol'^reiil extent. 

When the Ket'ormution wns estnhlish- 
rd in SeolliUid, instrumentui innsie wns 
hiinished t'rom the ohurehes. i\s stivonriufj 
too niueh ol' " protfine minstrelsy." In- 
Kleiid of heiny- res^'ulaled by tin iiis(rn- 
nient, the voiees o( the eonj;'re]i<!»(iv>ii are 
led nnd direeted hy « person under the 
tisme o('(i preeon(or ; niid (he people nre 
nil ex|>ee1ed to join in (he liine wliieh he 
oliooses lor the psiilni whieh is to he sniiji'. 
(^linreh-mnsie is there('ore « psut of the 
rdnention ot' the pensiintry of Seel hind, 
in whieli they tire usntilly ins(rneted in 
the loii^j- winter nijjhtji hy the parish 
pehoolinaster, who is jriMierally the pre- 
centiM", or hy itiuernnt teaeliers more 
crlehrated t\>r their powers ol* voice. 
This hraneh ot' education luui, in the last 
rtM}.>'n I'allen into seme ne}>leet, hut wns 
revivevl nhout thirty or t'orty years aji'(>. 
when the miisie itse\t' was retormed and 
improved. The Scottish system »^t'psal- 
tnody is, however, rndienlly had. l>esti- 
tuto ot' taste or harmony, it (orms a slrik- 
inji' CvMilrasI with the delicacy aiivl patiu^s 
nl'the protanc nirs. Our poet, it will he 
lonnd.was taujilit chnivh-mnsic.in whicli. 
however* ho maile little prot"u-i« n. y. 



V iniMAKKS. 

'That dMnciu}>' should also he very ^I'ue* 
rally a purl of I he education of the Scitt- 
lish peasant ry, will surprise those who 
have «uily seen this descriplion of men r 
and still more (hose who rellecl on (Im 
ri^id spiri( ol' t'lilvmism wilh which (hrt 
iiadtui is so deeply ntVec(ed, and (o which 
(his recreation is so ^(rons^'ly nhhorri'iit. 
The winter is also the season when they 
acipiire dancinji", nnd indeed almost nil 
(heir other ins(riiclion. They nre (auj.';ht 
lo dance hy persons };eiierally of (heir 
own nuuihcr, many orwliom work a( dai- 
Iv lahonr diiriiij; (In* siiuimer months. 
The sclu>ol is usually ti harn, nnd (ho 
arena I'vir the perl'oriners is j5;,>i\i>i nHy a 
clay tloor. The dome is lijyhd'd hy can- 
dles stuck in one end ol' n cloven slick, 
the other end ol' which is tlirusi into the 
wall. Heels, s(rn(hspeys. conn(ry-dan- 
ci's. and horn-pipes, nre here practised. 
The j\);- so iiiucli in Itivtuir ninon,vt tho 
I'lUj^lish peasantry, has no place ninoni; 
them. The a(tachmeii( of (he peoplo 
of Sco( laud ol' every rank, and par(icn- 
Inrlyiil'die pensnii(ry,to (his amusement, 
is very ^V'*'"'- AOerthe lahonrs ol' the 
day are over, vonnjv men nnd womei. 
wnlk many miles, in the cold and dreary 
nijrhts of winter, to (liese cennlry dan- 
cinji'-schools ; nnd (he ins(nnt (lint (lio 
violin sounds n JScodish air, t'a(i}iiie seems 
(o vanish, (he (oil-hent rustic heeomcs 
erect, his reatnres hrivfhten with sympa- 
thy ; every nervt* seems to thrill with 
si'usatien. nnd every artery to vihr.it»« 
with h('e. These rustic pert'ormers arc 
indeed less (o he admired I'or ij-race. than 
t'or ajiMlity niid animation, and their accu- 
rate ohscrvance ol' (ime. Their modes 
ot' dancinsj, as well as their tunes, are 
common to «'very rank in ,*>5cotland. and 
an* now ijvncrally known. In our own 
day they have penetrated into Kn}»laii<l, 
and have e.stnhlished themselves even iu 
the circle ol' nn'nlly. In mother ^cuc- 
rativMi they will he na(urnli;cd in every 
part orthe island. 

The prevalence ot'lhis taste, or rather 
passion tor dauciiify, amonjv n people so 
deeply tinctnrcvl with (he spirit ami doc- 
trines «>(' Calvin, is (Mi<> ot' (hose contra- 
dictions which the philos(»phic observer 
so ol)en (inds in national charactei and 
manners. It is pix>b,ibly [o be n.cribevl 
to the Scottish music, which tlin>iUThont 
nil its varieties, is so (\iU ot' sensibility ; 
and which, in its livelier strains, nwtikes 
those vivid emotions that timl \u dnucinjf 
their nale.ral solace and r»*liel*. 



ruKi'AToisv ri:m xuks. 



TliiM tri\nu)ili ol'llii' iiiusic ol' ScdIIiiiiiI 
v>V('r (ho Kinrit dl'tlio cf-tiililishi'il rclicio". 
finH iiol, however, hccii dhlinm-d willimit 
onjv ronlimii'd iiinl iil)nlinnlo nIvii^s^Ii'm. 
'rhiMumieimiM si'cttiiii'H whu diMHiMi) lioiii 
he esliihhshmi'iit on necoiint nl'lhe re- 
nvnlioii whii'h they |)er('eivt<, er think 
hey |)eroeiv(>, ii\ the rhurch, I'roiii Iier 
nriginiil (hirtriiu'H luiil (UMripHue, miiver- 
snlly ("omh'iiui the prnetiee of thiiieiiijr, 
niiil the seliools \vhi>re it in tiuifyhl. : iiml 
tlie more i>J(Ierly mul Kerionw purl oi" tlie 
people, ol' ev(M'y persiiiiHion, (oh'riile 
nil her th;\n iii)proV(> Ihene ini>eliii)rH of 
the yoiiiijj; of iiol h sexes, \vher<' iliniriiijf 
is pnietised to IhtMr spirit -Mlirriiifr nuisic, 
where eiire is dispelh>d, toil is lortifolleii, 
mid prudence ilsell' is soiiii'times lulled to 
slee]). 

'I'he Hi'lormiilioii, which proved IjImI 
to the rise ot" thi< other line nrts in Scol- 
liiiid, prohiildy imi»eded, hiil. could not ol)- 
slriict the proj.fress ol" its tiiiisie : n cir- 
cumsttnice thnt will convince the iinpiir- 
li;il niipiirer, Ihivt, lliis nnisic not only 
cMMled previously to thiit lerii, Init hiid 
t.'iki'n M lirni liohl of the mil ion ; Ihnsiir- 
I'ordinfr n proof of its miliipiit v, slroiijrer 
thiin liny produced hy the reHi'iircheM of 
otir niitiipiiiries. 

'I'l.e imprecision which Ihe Scolt;^dl 
music luis miide on Ihe people, \h deepen- 
ed hy its nni(m witli the niilioiinl sfmtfs, 
of which V!iri(ms collecli<mH of iini<tpml 
iiieril lire hefore I he pnhlic. 'I'licne soii^'h, 
like those of other milioiin, lire iiiiiny of 
them hnmorons ; hut they (diielly Ireiil o\' 
love, wiir, mid drinkiiijr. l/ove is Ihe 
nuhjecl, of Ihe jrreiitcr proporlimi. W'illi- 
oiit. disphiyinpf the hifflier powers of Ihe 
imii^imition, lliey exiiihil, II perfect k no w- 
h<(l(rit of the liuiiiiin hi'iirt, iind hreiilhe ii 
npirit, of iilleclion, mid sometimes of deli- 
ciiio mid roiiimilic tenderness, not to he 
siirpiis'-'ed in modern pool ry, mid which 
the more polished Miriiins of niitifpiily 
hiive Mi'ldoni possessed. 

The oriiMii of this miiiihu'y <'lnirncter 
in tlie riiHlic muse of S<'ollmid, or of the 
Ifreiil er mimher of I In-se love Honjrs I hmii- 
welves, it, would he dilllcnll to truce; 
they linve iir-ciimnliileii in the sih>iil, liipse 
ot'time, iind it is now perhiiiis impoNsilde 
to jjive Mil iirriinjr(Miienl (if I hem in Ihe 
order of Mieir diile, viilmihle nti such iv 
rorord of tiiste mid mminers would he. 
Their preNciit inlluence on lh(< chiirjicler 
of lilt! iiiilioii is, however, (ijreal. mid hI rik- 



iiiji'f. To llieiii we must iillrilinle, in ji 
I'leiil lueiisnii', the ronninlic pllN^:|on 
which HO often cliMriicteri'/.es the iiIImcIi- 
nienis of th(> Immldesl of Ihe people ef 
Scolliind, to 11 dcfjiee, llmt. il'we iiUHlfike 
not, is seldom liuind in thi' siiiiie riiiik of 
society in other coeiilries. The pictures 
of love mid hiippiness exhihil.ed in their 
nirnl sonfjfv iire curly impressed on the 
mind of the peiisiinl, iind lire rendered 
liuu'e nttrtii'tive from the iiuhmc wilh 
which they iire niiiled. They iissocinio 
themselves wilh his i>wii yimthfnl eiiio- 
tiims; they elt>viite the (diject. lis well im 
the iiiilnre of his iiltiichmenl ; mid jvivo 
to Ihe impressions of sense Ihe hiMinliful 
colours of iimifnniilioii. Hence in the 
course of his piissioii, ii ScolliMli pc-iuMiil 
oHeii exerts ii spirit of iidveiit lire, of 
w liiidi II Spmiish ciiviilier need not ho 
iishmiied. After the Inlioiirs of tlie dnv 
lire over, he sets out for the hiihiliil imi of 
his mistress, perhiips iil mmiy miles dis- 
timce, refriirdless of the leiifrth or the 
dreiiriiiess of tliewny. lie iipproiiches 
her in secresy, under t he disfriiise of iiij^Wii . 
A sifniiil III the door or window, perliiips 
iijrreed on, mid nnderstood hy none lint, 
her, fives iiilormiil ion of his iirriviil; iiml 
pomelimes it isri'peiiled n/niin mid iij.niin, 
hefore Ihe ciipricions fnir one will (diey 
the snminons. Hut if she liivonrH his ad- 
dresses, she esciipes nnohserveil, mid re- 
ceives the vows of her lover under the 
plooni of t witijrhl, or Ihe deeper sliiide cd" 
iiifHit. I liter views of this kind tire I he siih- 
jecls (d' nimiy of I he Scollish soiij'h, some 
of the most lieiiulifiil (d" which Uiiriis liii« 
imiliiled or improved. In the nil whndi 
tliev celidiriile he wiis pi<rfecllv skilled ; 
he knew iind liiid priiclis(<d nil its inysle- 
ricH. InteiTourse of this stirl, is indeed 
universnl even in the humhlest. coiidilioii 
of mmi ill every rejnon of the eiirlh. Itiil, 
it is not iinniiluriil In siipjiose lliiil it mny 
exist, in 11 irreiiti'r dejrrei', mid in ii moro 
roimiiitie l(M'ni, iimon^r the peiismitry of a 
connlry who lire siipposeii to lie morn 
llimi c(miiuonly instrneled ; wlio Iind in 
llic'ir riiriil soiijfs expressions for their 
yinilhfnl emotions: mid in whom the eiii- 
hers td'piission me coiilinuiilly fiinned liy 
the hreiilliiii)!;s of n music full of tender- 
ness mill seiisihilily. The direct, inllu- 
ence (d' physiciil ciiuses on the iillnclinieiif, 
het we(<n the sexes is compiiriilively siiiiill, 
hut it. is modified hy morel ciiiisen heyoml 
any ol her iiirecl ion td'the mind. ( )f I heso 
music mid poetry are the ciiief. Aiuon^ 
the snows of l.iipliind, and under tim 
huiniug nun of Aiijrola, I ho Hiivago is suou 



PREFATORY REMARKS. 



ha^eninnr to his mistress, and every where 
he beguiles the weaTiness of his journey 
with poetry and song.* 

In appreciating the happiness and vir- 
tue of a community, there is perhaps no 
single criterion on which so much depen- 
dence may be placed, as the state of the 
intercourse between the sexes. Where 
this displays ardour of attachment, ac- 
companied by purity of conduct, the cha- 
racter and the influence of women rise 
in society, our imperfect nature mounts 
in the scale of moral excellence ; and, 
from the source of this single affec- 
tion, a stream of felicity descends, which 
branches into a thousand rivulets that 
enrich and adorn the field of life Where 
the attachment between the sexes sinks 
into an appetite, the heritaf;e of our spe- 
cies is comparatively poor, and mail ap- 
proaches the condition of the brutes that 
perish. " If we could witii safety inoulge 
the pleasing supposition that Fingal lived 
and that Ossian sung,"| Scotland, judg- 
ing from this criterion, might be consi- 
dered as ranking high in happiness and 
virtue in very remote ages. To appre- 
ciate her situation by the same criterion 
in our own times, would be a delicate 
and a difficult undertaking. After con- 
sidering the probable intluence of her 
popular songs and her national music, and 
examining how far the effects to be ex- 
pected from these are supported by facts, 
the inquirer would also have to examine 
the influence of other causes, and parti- 
cularly of her civil and ecclesiastical insti- 
ti!tioiis,by which the character, and even 
the manners of a people, though silently 
and slowly, are often powerfully controll- 
ed. In the point of view in which we 
are considering the subject, the ecclesi- 
astical establishments of Scotland may 
be supposed peculiarly favourable to pu- 
rity of conduct. The dissoluteness of 
manners among the catholic clergy, which 
preceded, and in some measure produced 
the Reformation, led to an extraordinary 
strictness on the part of the reformers, 
and especially in that particular in which 
the licentiousness of the clergy had been 
carried to its 'greatest height — the inter- 
course between the sexes. On this point, 
as on all others connected with austei'ity 

* The North .American Indians, amonj; wliom the 
attaclinieiit between tlie sexes is sai<l to be weak, and 
love, in the purer sense of the word, a iknnwn, seem 
nearly iiiia('i|naiined with the cliarnis of poetry and 
music. Hce H'clil's Tour. 

t i;il)l)on. 



of manners, the disciples of Calvin as 
sumed a greater severity than those of 
the Protestant episcopal church. The 
punishment of illicit connexion between 
the sexes, was throughout all Europe, a 
province which the clergy assumed to 
themselves ; and the church of Scotland, 
which at the Reformation renounced so 
many powers and privileges, at that pe- 
riod took this crime under her more es- 
pecial jurisdiction.* Where pregnancy 
takes place without marriage, the condi 
tion of tJie female causes the discovery, 
and it is on her, therefore, in the first in- 
stance, that the clergy and elders of the 
church exercise their zeal. After exami- 
nation, before the kirk-session, touching 
tlie circumstances of her guilt, she must 
endure a public penance, and sustain a 
public rebuke from the pulpit, for three 
Sabbaths successively, in the face of the 
congregation to which she belongs, and 
tiius have her weakness exposed, and her 
sname blazoned. The sentence is the 
same with respect to the male ; but how 
much lighter tiie punishment ! It is well 
known that this dreadful law, worthy of 
the iron minds of Calvin and of Knox, has 
often led to consequences, at the very 
mention of which human nature recoils 

While the punishment of incontinence 
prescribed by the institutions of Scotland 
IS severe, the culprits have an obvious 
method of avoiding it afforded them by 
the law respecting marriage, the validity 
of which requires neither the ceremonies 
of the church, nor any other ceremonies, 
but simply the deliberate acknowledg 
ment of each other as husband and wife, 
made by the parties before witnesses, or 
in any other way that gives legal evidence 
of such an acknowledgment having taken 
place. And as the parties themselves 
fix the date of their marriage, an oppor- 
tunity is thus given to avoid the ])unish- 
ment, and repair the consequences of il- 
licit gratification. Such a degree of laxi- 
ty respecting so serious a contract might 
produce much confusion in the descent of 
property, without a still farther indul- 
gence ; but the law of Scotland legiti- 
mating all children born before wedlock, 
on the subsequent marriage of their pa- 
rents, renders the actual date of tlie mar- 
riage itself of little consequence.! Mar- 
riages contracted in Scotland without the 
ceremonies of the church, are considered 

* See Appendi.x, No. I. NoteO. 
t See Appendix, No. I. Note D 



PREFATORY REMARKS. 



as irregular^ a,n(^ the parties usually sub- 
mit to a rebuke for their conduct, in the 
face of their respective congregations, 
which is not however necessary to render 
the marriage valid. Burns, whose mar- 
riage, it will appear, was irreguldr, does 
not seem to have undergone this part of 
the disciphne of the church. 

Thus, though the institutions of Scot- 
land are in many particulars favourable 
to a conduct among the peasantry found- 
ed on foresight and reflection, on the sub- 
ject of marriage the reverse of this is 
true. Irregular marriages, it may be 
naturally supposed, are often improvident 
ones, in whatever rank of society they 
occur. The children of such marriages, 
poorly endowed by their parents, find a 
certain degree of instruction of easy ac- 
quisition ; but the comforts of life, and 
the gratifications of ambition, they find 
of more difficult attainment in their na- 
tive soil ; and thus the marriage laws of 
Scotland conspire with other circumstan- 
ces, to produce that habit of emigration, 
and spirit of adventure, for which the 
people are so remarkable. 

The manners and appearance of the 
Scottish peasantry do not bespeak to a 
stranger the degree of their cultivation. 
In their own country, their industry is 
inferior to that of the same description of 
men in the southern division of the island. 
Industry and the useful arts reached Scot- 
land later than England ; and though 
their advance has been rapid there, 
the effects produced are as yet far inferior 
both in reality and in appearance. The 
Scottish farmers have in general neither 
the opulence nor the comforts of those of 
England, neither vest the same capital 
in the soil, nor receive from it the same 
return. Their clothing, their food, and 
their habitations, are almost everywhere 
inferior.* Their appearance in these 
respects corresponds with the appearance 
of their country; and under the operation 
of patient industry, botli are improving. 
Industry and the useful arts came later 
into Scotland than into England, because 
the security of property came later. With 
causes of internal agitation and warfare, 
similar to those which occured to the 
more southern nation, the people of Scot- 

* TliPse remarks are confined to the class of farmers ; 
the same corresponding i.'ifcriorily will not he found in 
the condition of the cottagers and lalioiirers, at least 
in the article of food, as those who examine this sub- 
)ect impartially will soou discover. 



land were exposed to more imminent ha- 
zards, and more extensive and destruc- 
tive spoliation, from external war. Oc- 
cupied in the maintenance of their inde- 
pendence against their more powerful 
neighbours, to this were necessarily sa- 
crificed the arts of peace, and at certain 
periods, the flower of their population. 
And when the union of the crowns pro- 
duced a security from national wars with 
England, for the century succeeding, the 
civil wars common to both divisions of the 
island, and the dependence, perhaps the 
necessary dependence of the Scottish 
councils on those of tlie more powerful 
kingdom, counteracted this disadvantage. 
Even the union of the British nations was 
not, from obviotis causes, immediately 
followed by all the benefits which it was 
ultimately destined to produce. At length, 
however, these benefits are distinctly felt, 
and generally acknowledged. Property 
is secure ; manufactures and commerce 
increasing; and agriculture is rapidly 
improving in Scotland. As yet, indeed, 
the farmers are not, in general, enabled 
to make improvements out of their own 
capitals, as in England ; but the landhold- 
ers, who have seen and felt the advan- 
tages resulting from them, contribute 
towards them with a liberal hand. Hence 
property, as well as population, is accu 
mulating rapidly on the Scottish soil ; and 
the nation, enjoying a great part of the 
blessings of Englishmen, and retaining 
several of their own happy institutions, 
might be considered, if confidence could 
be placed in human foresight, to be as 
yet only in an early stage of their pro- 
gress. Yet there are obstructions in their 
way. To the cultivation of the soil are 
opposed the extent and the strictness of 
the entails ; to the improvement of the 
people, the rapidly increasing use of spi- 
rituous liquors,* a detestable practice, 
which includes in its consequences al- 
most every evil, physical and moral. The 
peculiarly social disposition of tlie Scot- 
tish peasantry exposes them to this prac- 
tice. This disposition, which is fostered 
by their national songs and music, is per- 
haps characteristic of the nation at large. 
Though the source of many pleasures, it 
coimteracts by its consequences the ef- 

* The amount of the duty on spirits distilled in Scot- 
land is now upwards of '250,(100/. annually. In I77T, it 
did not reach 8,000/. The rate of the duty has indeed 
been raised, but making every allowance, the increase 
of consumptioii must be enormous. This is irdepen- 
dent of the duty on malt, &c. malt liquor, imported 
spii Its, and wine. 



8 



PREFATORY REMARKS. 



fects of their patience, industry, and fni- 
j^ality, botli at homo and abroad, of whicli 
tiiose especially who liavo \vitn(\s.scd the 
l)rogresri of iScotclnnon hi other coun- 
tries, must have known many striking in- 
stances. 

Since tiio Uniiui, the manners and lan- 
pfMa!,'e of tlie peoph; of Scothmd have no 
long(;r a staiulard among thomselvos, but 
are tried by the standard of tlu> nation to 
wliich they are united. Though tlioir 
habits arc far from being tlexibh', yet it 
is evident that thcur maimers niul diak>et 
are undergoing a ra])id change. Even 
the farmers of the present day appear to 
luive h^ss oftlie ))eculiarities of their coun- 
try in their spcecli, than the meu of hit- 
ters of tlic hist geiuM-ation. ]5urns, who 
never left the ishind, nor i)cnetratQd far- 
ther into England than Carhsle on the 
one haiul, or Newcasthi on tlie other, h;i(l 
less of the Scottish (halect tlian Ilume, 
wlui lived ii)r many years in the best so- 
ciety of England and France: or perliaps 
tlinn Robertson, who wrote the English 
liiuguiige in a style of such ])urity ; and if 
he had been in other respects fitted to 
take a lead in tlie llritisli House of Com- 
mon;?!, his pronunciation would neither 
liave fettered his eloquence, nor deprived 
it of its due ellect. 

A striking particular in the charac- 
ter of the Scottish peasantrv, is (me 
which it is hopcMl will not be lost — the 
Ftrength of their domestic nttacliments. 
The privation to which mniiy ])aren1s 
submit for tiie good of tlu-ir cliiidren, and 
particularly to obtain for them instruc- 
tion, whicli they consider as the chief 
good, has already been noticed. If their 
children live and prosper, they have their 
certain reward, not merely as wifnessinij, 
but as sharing of their prosperity. Even 
in the humblest ranks of the peasantry, 
the earnings of the children may gene- 
rally be considered as at the disposal of 
their parents; perhaps in no country is so 
large a portion of the wages of labour 
applied to the support and comfort of 
those whose days of labour are ])ast. A 
similar strength of attachment extends 
through all the domestic relations. 

Our poet partook largely of this amia- 
ble ciiaracteristic of his humble comi)eers; 
he was also strongly tinctured with ano- 
ther striking feature which belongs to 
fhem, a partiality for Jiis native country, 
of which many proofs may bo found in his 



writings. Tiiis, it must be confessed, is a 
very strong and geniM'al sentiment, among 
the natives of Scotland, dill'eriug, how- 
ever, in its character, according' to tiie 
character of the dillereiiL minds in which 
it is found ; in some appearing a seliish 
prejudice, in others, a generous alfcction. 

An attacluuent to the land of their birth 
is, indeed, connnon to all men. It is found 
among the inhabitants of every regicui of 
the earth, irom tlie arctic to the antarctic 
circle, in all the vast variety of climate 
of surface, and of civilization. To analyze 
this general sentiment, to trace it thrmitili 
the mazes of association uji to tlie prima 
ry all'ection in which it has its source, 
would neither be a dilliciilt nor an un 
pleasing labour. On the lirst considera- 
tion of the subject, we should j)erliap3 
expect to iiud this attachment stnuig in 
prdjxjrfion to the physical advantages or 
tlie soil ; but inquiry, far from confirming 
this sui)position, seems rather to lead to 
an opjjosite conclusion. — In those fertile 
regions where beneficent nature yields 
almost spontaneously whatever is neces- 
sary to human wants, patriotism, as well 
as every other generous sentiment, seems 
weak and languid. Tn countries less rich- 
ly endowed, where the comforts, and even 
necessaries of life must be purchased by 
patient toil, the alfections of the mind, as 
well as the facultiesof the understanding, 
improve under exertion, and patriotism 
flourishes amidst its kindred virtues. 
Wh(!re it is necessary to combine Wn mu- 
tual defence, as well as for the supply ol 
common wniits, mutual good-will springs 
from mutual dilliciilt ies and labours, the 
social alfections unfohl themselves, and 
extend from the men with whom we live, 
to the soil on which we tread. It will per- 
haps be found indeed, that our atlections 
cannot be originally called forth, but by 
objects capable, or supposed capable, of 
feeling our sentiments, and of returning 
them ; but when once excited they are 
strengthened by exercise, they are ex- 
panded by the ])owers of imagination, and 
seize more especially on those inanimate 
parts of creation, which form the theatre 
on which we have first felt the alternations 
of joy, and sorrow, and first tasted the 
sweets of sympathy and regard. If this 
reasoning be just, tli<^ love of our country, 
although luoditied, and men extinguished 
in indiviiluals by the chances and changes 
of life, may be presumed, in our general 
reasonings, to be strong among a peoplo 
in proportion to their social, and nic 



PREFATORY REMARKS. 



especially to their domestic aircctions. In 
free <rovornnicnts it is ibiirid more active 
tliaii in fl(;sj)c)tic ones, because as the in- 
dividual becomes of more consequence in 
the community, the community becomes 
of more consequence to him. In small 
ptates it is frenorally more active tiian in 
large ones, for the same reason, and also 
because the independence of a small com- 
munity biiiiiir nuiintainod with difficulty, 
and frequently endangered, sentiments of 

fatriotism.aro more frequently excited, 
n mountainous coimtries it is generally 
found more active than in plains, because 
tiiere the necessities of lifi; often require 
a closer union of the inhabitants ; and 
more especially, because in such coun- 
tries, though less populous than plains, 
the inhabitants, instead of being scattensd 
equally over the wiiole are usually divid- 
ed into small comnmnities on the sides of 
tiieir separate valleys, and on the banks 
of their respective streams; situations 
well calculated to call forth and to con- 
centrate the social aifections, amidst sce- 
nery that acts most powerfully on tlie 
eight, and makes a lasting impression on 
the memory. It may also be remarked, 
that mountainous countries are often pe- 
culiarly calculated to nourish sentiments 
of national pride and independence, from 
the influence of history on the afft;ctions 
of tin; mind. In such countries from their 
natural strcngtii, inferior nations liave 
maintained their indeptMidence against 
their more powerful neighbours, and va- 
lour, in all ages, has made its most success- 
ful ellorts against oppression. Such coun- 
tries present the fields of battle, where 
the tide of invasion was rolled back, and 
where the ashes of those rest, who have 
died in defence of their nation. 

The operation of the various causes we 
have mentioned is doubtless more general 
and more permanent, where the scenery 



of a country, the peculiar manners of its 
inhabitants, and the martial achieve- 
ments of their ancestors are embodied in 
national songs, and united to national 
nuisic. ]5y this combination, the tiea 
that attach men to the land of their birth 
are multipli(;d and strengthened : cand the 
images of infancy, strongly associating 
with the generous aifections, resist the 
influence of time, and of new impressioiis ; 
they often survive in countries far distant, 
and amidst far diflerent scenes, to the 
lat(>st periods of life, to sooth the heart 
with the i)]easures of memory, when 
those of hope die away. 

If this reasoning be just, it will explain 
to us why, among the natives of Scot- 
land, oven of cultivated minds, we so 
generally find a partial attachment to the 
land of their birth, and why this is so 
strongly discov(;rable in the writings of 
IJurns, who joined to the higher powers of 
the understanding the most ardent affec- 
tions. Let not men of reflection think 
it a superfluous labour to trace the rise 
and progress of a character like his 
IJorn in the condition of a peasant, he 
rose by the force of his mind into distinc- 
tion and influence, and in his works has 
exhibited what arc so rarely found, the 
charms of original genius. With a deep 
insight into the human heart, his poetry 
exhibits high powers of imaginalion — it 
displays, and as it were embalms, the pe- 
culiar manners of his country ; and it may 
be considered as a monument, not to his 
own name only, but to the expiring geni- 
us of an ancient and once indej)endent 
nation. In relating the incidents of his 
life, candour will prevent us from dwell- 
ing invidiously on those failings which 
justice forbids us to conceal ; we will 
tread lightly over his yet warm ashce, 
and respect the laurels that shelter hia 
untimely grave. 



THE J.TFE 

OF 

BY DH. CURHIi;. 



R01U.RT BuuNS was, as is woll known, 
the son of a farmer in Ayrsliiro, and af- 
terwards himself a farmer there; but, 
Imvinp^ been unsuccessful, he was about 
lo emiivrate to Jauuiica. He had previ- 
ously, however, attracted some notice by 
hi.-; poetical talents in the vicinity where 
he lived ; and havino; ])ul)lished a small 
volume of his poems at Kilmarnock, this 
drew upon him more jrcnoral attention. 
In consequence of the encourao^ement lie 
received, he repaired to Edinburgh, and 
tliere published by sul)scription, an im- 
proved and enlarged edition of liis poems, 
which met witb extraordinary success. 
Bvthc prolits arising from the sale of this 
edition, he wns enabled to entin- on a 
farm in Dumfries-shire ; and having mar- 
rio<l a person to wliom he iiad been long 
attaclicd, he retired to devote the renuiin- 
der of his life to agriculture. He was 
again, however, unsuccessful; and, aban- 
doning Ids farm, he removed into tiic 
town of Dumfries, where he filled an in- 
ftM-ior ollice in the excise, and where he 
tenuinated his life, in July 1796, in his 
thirty-eighth year. 

The strength and originality of his ge- 
nius orocured him the notice of many 
persons distinguished in the republic of 
lett(M-s, and, iimong otiiers, that of Dr. 
Moore, well known for Ids J-icws of Soci- 
ctij and Manners on the Continent of Eu- 
rope, Zelitro, and various other works. 
To this gentleman our poet addressed a 
letter, after his first visit to Ediuburgli, 
giving a iiistory of his life, up to the pe- 
riod of his writing. Tn a composition 
never intended to s(H^ the light, eh'gance, 
or perfect correctness of coini>osition will 
not be expected. Tliese, however, will 
be comixmsated by the oiiporfuuity of 
sce:ng our jKiot, as he gives the incidents 



of his rfc, unfold the pccuhaAties of nig 
character with all tiie careless vigour and 
open sincerity of his mind. 

Mauchliiie, 2d August, 1787 

" Sir, 

" FoK some months past I have been 
rambling over the country ; but I am now 
confined with some lingering com])laints, 
originating, as I take it, in the stomach. 
To divert my spirits a little in this mise- 
rable fog oi' ennui, I have taken a wliim 
to give you a history of myself. My 
name has made some little noise in this 
country; you have done me the honour 
to interest yourself very warmly in my 
behalf; and I think a faithful account of 
what character of a man I am, and how 
I came by that character, may perhaps 
amuse you in an idle moment. I will 
give yon an honest narrative; thougli I 
know it will be often at my own ex]iense ; 
for I assure you, Sir, I have, like Solo- 
mon, whose ch:iracter, exce])ting in tlio 
trilling ailiiir of ic/.sv/om, I somefimes think 
I resemble — I have, I say, like him, turn- 
ed mit eijes to behold madness and folly, 
and, like him, too frequently shaken hands 
witii their intoxicating friendsliip.* ■*■ * 
After you have perused these pages, 
should you think them trilling and iiiiper 
tinent, I oidy beg leave to tell you, that 
the poor author wrote them under some 
twitching qualms of conscience, arising 
from suspicion tiiat he was doing what 
he ought not to do : a predicament he has 
more than once been in before. 

" I have not the most distant pretensions 
to assume tlint character which tlie pye- 
coated guardians of escutcheons call a 
Gcutleman. When at Kdinbtirgli last 
winter, I got acquainted in the Herald's 
Olhce ; and, looking through that granary 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



IJ 



of honours, I there found ahnost every 
name in tlie kingdom ; but for me, 

'• My ancient but ii;M()bl(! Iilood 
Has crept tliro' scoundrels ever since the flood." 

Gules, Purpure, Argent, &,c. quite dis- 
owned mc. 

" My father was of tlie north of Scot- 
land, tho son of a farmer, and was thrown 
by early misfortunes on the world at large; 
where, after many years' wanderings and 
eojoiirnings, he picked up a pretty large 
quantity of observation and experience, 
to whicii I am indebted for most of my 
little pretensions to wisdom. I have met 
with few who understood mnn, their man- 
ners^ and their wai/x, equal to him; but 
Btubborn, ungainly integrity, and head- 
long, ungovernable irascibility, are dis- 
qualifying circumstances ; consequently I 
was born a very poor man's son. For the 
first six or seven years of my life, my fa- 
ther was gardener to a worthy gentleman 
of small estate in the neighbourhood of 
Ayr. Had he continued in that station, 
I uuist Iiave marched olF to be one of the 
little underlings about a farm-house; but 
it was his dearest wish and prayer to have 
it in his power to keep his cliiidren under 
his own eye till they could discern be- 
tween good and evil ; so with the assist- 
ance of his generous master, my father 
ventured on a small farm on his estate. 
At those years I was by no means a fa- 
vourite witli any body. I was a good 
deal noted for a retentive memory, a stub- 
born, sturdy something in my disposition, 
and an enthusiastic ideot* piety. I say 
iileot piety, because I was then but a 
child. Though it cost the schoolmaster 
some thrashings, I made an excellent 
English scholar ; and by the time I was 
ten or eleven years of age, I was a critic 
in substantives, verbs, and particles. In 
my infant and boyish days, too, I owed 
much to an ojd woman who resided in the 
family, remarkable for her ignorance, cre- 
dulity and superstition. She had, I sup- 
pose, the largest collection in the country 
of tales and songs, concerning devils, 
ghosts, fairies, brownies, witches, war- 
locks, spunkies, kelpies, elf-candles, dead- 
lights, wraiths, apparitions, cantraips, gi- 
ants, enchanted towers, dragons, and 
other trumpery. This cultivated the la- 
tent seeds of poetry ; but had so strong an 
effect on my imagination, that to this hour, 
in my nocturnal rambles,! sometimes keep 
a sharp look-out in suspicious places: and 

•Idiot fnr Idiotlo 
02 



though nobody can be more sceptical than 
I am in sucli matters, yet it often takes an 
effort of pliilosophy to sliake olf these idle 
terrors. The earliest composition that I 
recollect taking pleasure in, was VVie f^i- 
sion of .Mirza, and a hymn of Addison's, 
beginning, How arc thy xcrvnntu h/cst, O 
Lord ! I particularly remember one half- 
stanza, which was nuisic to my boyish 
car — 

" For though on dreadful vvliirls we hung 

Hii»h r)n the broken wave — " 

I met with these pieces in J\In.ion's Eng- 
lixh Colleition, one of my school-books. 
The two first books I ever read in private, 
and which gave me more pleasure than 
any two books I ever road since, were 
7%e Life of Ilannifial, and The History of 
Sir William Wallare. Hannibal gave 
my young ideas sucli a turn, that I used 
to strut in raptures up and down after the 
recruiting drum and bag-pipe, and wish 
myself tall enough to be a soldier ; while 
the story of Wallace poured a Scottish 
prejudice into my veins, which will boil 
along there till the flood-gates of life shut 
in eternal rest. 

" Polemical divinity about this time was 
putting tlie country half-mad ; and I, am- 
bitious of shining in conversation parties 
on Sundays, between sermons, a"t fune- 
rals, &c. used, a few years afterwards, to 
puzzle Calvinism with so much heat and 
indiscretion, that I raised a hue and cry 
of heresy against mc, whicli has not ceas- 
ed to this hour. 

" My vicinity to Ayr was of some ad- 
vantage to me. My social disposition, 
when not checked by some modificationa 
of spirited pride, was, like our catechism- 
definition of infinitude, without hounds or 
limil.1. I formed several connexions with 
other younkers who possessed superior 
advantages, the 7joun<j;ling actors, who 
wore busy in the rehearsal of parts in 
which they were shortly to appear on the 
stage of life, where, alas ! I was destined 
to drudge behind the scenes. It is not 
commonly at this green age that our 
young gentry have a just sense of tho im- 
mense distance between them and their 
ragged play-fellows. It takes a few 
dashes into the world, to give the young 
great man that propcT, decent, unnoticing 
disregard for the poor, insignificant, stu 
pid devils, the mechanics and p(Misantry 
around him, who were perhaps born in 
the same village. My yoimg superioru 
never insulted the clouterly appearance of 



12 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



my ploughboy carcass, the two extremes 
ofvvhich were often exposed to all the in- 
clemencies ofall the seasons. They would 
give me stray volumes of books ; among 
them, even then, I could pick up some ob- 
servations ; and one, whose heart I am 
sure not even the Munny Begum scenes 
have tainted, helped me to a little French. 
Parting with these my young friends and 
benefactors as they occasionally went off 
for the East or West Indies, was often 
to me a sore affliction ; but I was soon 
called to more serious evils. My father's 
generous master died ; the farm proved a 
ruinous bargain ; and, to clench the mis- 
fortune, we fell into the hands of a factor, 
who sat for the picture I have drawn of 
one in my Tale of Tioa Doffs. My father 
was advanced in life when he married ; I 
was the eldest of seven children; and he 
worn out by early hardships, was' unfit 
for labour. My father's spirit was soon 
irritated, but not easily broken. There 
was a freedom in his lease in two years 
more ; and, to weather these two years, 
we retrenched our expenses. We lived 
very poorly : I was a dexterous plough- 
man, for my age ; and the next eldest to 
me was a brother (Gilbert) who could 
drive the plotigh very well, and help me 
to thrash the corn. A novel writer might 
perhaps have viewed these scenes with 
some satisfaction ; but so did not I ; my 
indignation yet boils at the recollection 
of the s 1 factor's insolent threat- 
ening letters, which used to set us all in 
tears. 

" This kind of life — the cheerless gloom 
of a hermit, with the unceasing moil of a 
galley-slave, brought me to my sixteenth 
year ; a little before which period I first 
committed the sin of Rhyme. You know 
our country custom of coupling a man 
and woman together as partners in the 
labours of harvest. In my fifteenth au- 
tumn my partner was a bewitching crea- 
ture, a year younger than myself. My 
scarcity of English denies me the power 
of doing her justice in that language ; but 
you know the Scottish idiom — she was a 
honnie, sweet, sonsie lass. In short, she 
altogether, unwittingly to herself, initia- 
ted me in that delicious passion, which in 
gpite of acid disappointment, gin-horse 
prudence, and book-worm philosophy, I 
hold to be the first of human joys, our 
dearest blessing here below ! How she 
jaught the contagion I cannot tell : you 
uedical people talk much of infection from 
breathing the same air, the touch, &c. ; 



but I never expressly said I loved her. 
Indeed I did not know myself why I liked 
so much to loiter behind with her, when 
returning in the evening from our labours ; 
why the tones of her voice made my heart- 
strings thrill like an iEolian harp ; and 
particularly why my pulse beat such a 
furious ratan when I looked and fingered 
over her little hand to pick out the cruel 
nettle stings and thistles. Among her 
other love-inspiring qualities, she sung 
sweetly ; and it was her favourite reel, 
to which I attempted giving an embodied 
vehicle in rhyme. I was not so presump- 
tuous as to imagine that I could make 
verses like printed ones, composed by men 
who had Greek and Latin ; but my girl 
sung a song, which was said to be com- 
posed by a small country laird's son, on 
one of his father's maids, with whom ho 
was in love ! and I saw no reason why I 
might not rhyme as well as he ; for, ex- 
cepting that he could smear sheep, and 
cast peats, his father living in the moor- 
lands, he had no more scholar-craft than 
myself.* 

" Thus with me began love and poetry: 
which at times have been my only, and 
till within the last twelve months, have 
been my highest enjoyment. My father 
struggled on till he reached the freedom 
in his lease, when he entered on a larger 
farm, about ten miles farther in the coun- 
try. The nature of the bargain he made 
was such as to throw a little ready mo- 
ney into his hands at the commencement 
of his lease, otherwise the affair would 
have been impracticable. For four years 
we lived comfortably here ; but a differ- 
ence commencing between him and his 
landlord as to terms, after three years 
tossing and whirling in the vortex of liti- 
gation, my father was just saved from the 
horrors of a jail by a consumption, which, 
after two years' promises, kindly stepped 
in, and carried him away, to where the 
wicked cease from troubling^ and the weary 
are at rest, 

•' It is during the time that we lived on 
this farm, that my little story is most 
eventful. I was, at the beginning of this 
period, perhaps the most ungainly, awk- 
ward boy in the parish — no solitaire was 
less acquainted with the ways of the 
world. What I knew of ancient story 
was gathered from Snlmo7i's and Gm- 
thrie's geographical grammars j and tlie 

• See Appendix, No. II. Note A 



THE LIFE OF BURNS 



IS 



Tdeas T had formed of modern manners, of 
literature, and criticism, I got from the 
Spectator. These with Pope's Works, 
some plays of Skakspeare, Tull and Dick- 
son on As:riculture, The Pantheon, Locke's 
Essay on the Human Understanding, Slack- 
house's History of the Bible, Justice's Brit- 
ish Gardener's Directory, Bayle's Lec- 
tures, Allan Ramsay's Works, Taylor's 
Scripture Doctrine of Original Sin, A Se- 
lect Collection of English Songs, and Her- 
vey's JMeditulions, had formed the whole 
of my reading. The collection of Songs 
was my vade mecum. I pored over them 
driving my cart, or walking to labour, 
song by song, verse by verse : carefully 
noting the true tender, or sublime, from 
affectation and fustian. I am convniced 
I owe to this practice much of my critic 
craft, such as it is. 

" In my seventeenth year, to give my 
manners a brush, I went to a country 
dancing school. My father had an unac- 
countable antipathy against these meet- 
ings ; and my going was, what to this 
moment I repent, in opposition to his 
wishes. My father, as I said before, was 
subject to strong passions; from that in- 
stance of disobedience in me he took a 
sort of dishke to me, which I believe was 
one cause of the dissipation which mark- 
ed my succeeding years. I say dissipa- 
tion, comparatively with the strictness 
and sobriety, and regularity of presbyte- 
rinn country life ; for though the Will o' 
Wisp meteors of thoughtless whim were 
almost the sole lights of my path, yet ear- 
ly ingrained piety and virtue kept me for 
several years afterwards within the line 
of innocence. The great misfortune of 
my life was to want an aim. I had felt 
early some stirrings of ambition, but they 
were the blind gropings of Homer's Cy- 
clop round the walls of his cave. I saw 
my fether's situation entailed on me per- 
petual labour. The only two openings by 
which I could enter the temple of For- 
tune, was the gate of niggardly economy, 
or the path of little chicaning bargain- 
making. The first is so contracted an 
aperture, I never could squeeze myself 
into it; — the last I always hated — there 
was contamination in the very entrance ! 
Thtis abandoned of aim or view in life, 
with a strong appetite for sociability, as 
well from native hilarity as from a pride 
of observation and remark; a constitu- 
tional melancholy or hvpochondriasm that 
made me fly from solitude ; add to tliese 
incentives to social life, my reputation for 



bookish knowledge, a certain wild logi- 
cal talent, and a strength of thought, 
sometliing like the rudiments of good 
sense ; and it will not seem surprising 
that I was generally a welcome guest 
where I visited, or any great wonder 
that, always where two or three met to 
gether, there was I among them. But far 
beyond all other impulses of my heart, 
was un penchant a I'adorahle moitie du 
genre humain. My heart was completely 
tinder, and was eternally lighted up by 
some goddess or other ; and as in every 
other warfare in this world, my fortune 
was various, sometimes I was received 
with favour, and sometimes I was morti 
fieu wllh a repulse. At the plough, scythe 
or reaping' hook, I feared no competitor, 
and thus I set absolute want at defiance ; 
and as I never cared farther for my la- 
bours than while I was in actual exercise, 
I spent the evenings in the way after my 
own heart. A country lad seldom carries 
on a love-adventure without an assisting 
confidant. I possessed a curiosity, zeal, 
and intrepid dexterity, that recommended 
me as a proper second on these occasions ; 
and I dare say, I felt as much pleasure in 
being in the secret of half the loves of the 
parish of Tarbolton, as ever did statesman 
in knowing the intrigues of half the courts 
of Europe. Tlie very goose feather in my 
hand seems to know instinctively the well- 
worn path of my imagination, the favour- 
ite theme of my song : and is with diffi- 
culty restrained from giving you a couple 
of paragraphs on the love-adventures ot 
my compeers, the humble inmates of the 
farm-house, and cottage ; but the grave 
sons of science, ambition, or avarice, bap- 
tize these things by the name of Follies. 
To the sons and daughters of labour and 
poverty, they are matters of the most se- 
rious nature ; to them, the ardent hope, 
the stolen interview, the tender farewell, 
are the greatest and most delicious parts 
of their enjoyments. 

"Another circumstance in my life which 
made some alterations in my mind and 
manners, was that I spent my nineteenth 
summer on a smuggling coast, a good 
distance from home at a noted school, to 
learn mensuration, surveying, dialling, 
&c. in which I made a pretty good pro- 
gress. But I made a greater progress in 
ithe knowledge of mankind. The con- 
traband trade was at that time very suc- 
cessful, and it sometimes happened to me 
to fall in with those who carried it on. 
Scenes of swaggering, riot and roaring 



14 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



dissipation were till this time new to me; 
but I was no enemy to social life. Here, 
though I learnt to fill my glass, and to 
mix without fear in a drunken squabble, 
yet I went on with a high hand with my 
geometry, till the sun entered Virgo, a 
month which is always a carnival in my 
bosom, when a churniing Jilette who lived 
next door to the school, overset my tri- 
gonometry, and set me off at a tangent 
from the sphere of my studies. I, how- 
ever, struggled on with my sines and co- 
sines for a few days more ; but stepping 
into the garden one charming noon to 
take the sun's altitude, tnere I met my 
angel, 

" Like Proserpine gathering flowers, 
Herseli a fairer flower- '' 

" It was in vain to think of doing' any 
more good at school. The remaining 
week I staid, I did nothing but craze the 
faculties of my soul about her, or steal 
o\it to meet her ; and the two last nights 
of my stay in the country, had sleep been 
a mortal sin, the image of this modest and 
innocent girl had kept me guiltless. 

" I returned home very considerably 
Improved. My reading was enlarged with 
the very important addition of Thomson's 
and Shenstone's Works ; I had seen hu- 
man nature in a new phasis ; and I en- 
gaged several of my school-fellows to 
keep up a literary correspondence with 
me. This improved me in composition. 
I had met with a collection of letters by 
the wits of Queen Anne's reign, and I 
pored over them most devoutly ; I kept 
copies of any of my own letters that pleas- 
ed me; and a comparison between them 
and the composition of most of my corres- 
pondents, flattered my vanity. I carried 
this whim so far, that though I had not 
three farthings' worth of business in the 
world, yet almost every post brought me 
as many letters as if I had been a broad 
plodding son of day-book and ledger. 

" My life flowed on much in the same 
course till my twenty-third year. Vive 
V amour, et vive la hagati lie, were my 
sole principles of actien. The addition 
of two more authors to my library gave 
me great pleasure; Sterne and M^Kenzie 
— Tristram Shandy and The Man of Feel- 
ins; — were my bosom favourites. Poesy 
was still a darling walk for my mind ; but 
it was only indulged in according to the 
humour of the hour. I had usually half 



a dozen or more pieces on hand ; I took 
up one or other, as it suited the moment- 
ary tone of the mind, and dismissed the 
work as it bordered on fatigue. My pas- 
sions, when once lighted up, raged like so 
many devils, till they got vent in rhyme , 
and then the conning over my verses, like 
a spell, soothed all into quiet ! None of 
the rhymes of those days are in print, ex- 
cept Winter, a Dirge, the eldest of my 
printed pieces ; The Death of Poor Mai- 
lie, John Barleycorn, and songs first, se- 
cond, and third. Song second was the 
ebullition of that passion which ended the 
forementioned school-business. 

" My twenty-third year was to me an 
important era. Partly through whhn, and 
partly that I wished to set about doing 
sometliing in life, I joined a flax-dresser 
in a neighbouring town (Irvine) to learn 
his trade. This was an unlucky affair. My 
* * * ; and to finish the whole, as we were 
giving a welcome carousal to the new 
year, the shop took fire, and burnt to ash- 
es : and I was left like a true poet, not 
worth a sixpence. 

" I was obliged to give up this scheme; 
the clouds of misfortune were gathering 
thick round my father's head ; and wliat 
was worst of all he was visibly far gone 
in a consumption ; ana to crown my 
distresses, a belle Jille whom I adored, 
and who had pledged her soul to meet 
me in the field of matrimony, jilted me, 
with peculiar circumstances of mortifica- 
tion. The finishing evil that brought up 
the rear of this infernal file, was my con- 
stitutional melancholy, being increased to 
such a degree, that for tliree months I 
was in a state of mind scarcely to be en- 
vied by the hopeless wretches who have 
got their mittimus — Depart from me, yo 
accursed ! 

" From this adventure I learned some 
thing of a town life ; but the principal 
thing which gave my mind a turn, was a 
friendship I formed with a young fellow, 
a very noble character, but a hapless son 
of misfortune. Pie was the son of a sim 
pie mechanic ; but a great man in the 
neighbourhood taking him under his pa- 
tronage, gave him a genteel education, 
with a view of bettering his situation in 
life. The patron dying just as he was 
ready to launch out into the world, the 
poor fellow in despair went to sea ; where 
after a variety of good and ill fortune, a 
little before I was acquainted with him. 



THE LIFE OF^URNS. 



1.1 



he had been set on shore by an American 
j)nvateer, on the wild coast of Connaug-ht, 
stripped of every thing. I cannot quit this 
poor fellow's story without adding-, that 
he is at this time master of a large West- 
Indiaman belonging to the Thames. 

" His mind was fraught with indepen- 
dence, magnanimity, and every manly 
virtue. I loved and admired him to a de- 
gree of enthusiasm, and of course strove 
to imitate him. In some measure I suc- 
ceeded; I had pride before, but he taught 
it to flow in proper channels. His know- 
ledge of the world was vastly superior to 
mine, and I was all attention to learn. He 
was the only man ] ever saw who was a 
greater fool than myself, where woman 
was the presiding star ; but he spoke of 
illicit love with the levity of a sailor, 
which hitherto I had regarded with hor- 
ror. Here his friendship did me a mis- 
chief; and the consequence was that soon 
after I resumed the plough, I wrote the 
Poet's IVdrome.* My reading only in- 
creased, while in this town, by two stray 
volumes o? Pamela, and one of Ferdinand 
Count Fathom, which gave me some idea 
of novels. Rhyme, except some religious 
pieces that are in print, I had given up ; 
but meeting with Ferguson's Scottish Po- 
ems, I strung anew my wildly sounding 
lyre with emulating vigour. When my 
father died, his all went among the hell- 
hounds that prowl in the kennel of justice ; 
but we made a shift to collect a little mo- 
ney in the family amongst us, with which, 
to keep us together, my brother and I 
took a neighbouring farm. My brother 
wanted my hair-braineci imagination, as 
well as my social and amorous madness ; 
but, in good sense, and every sober quali- 
fication, he was far my superior. 

" I entered on this farm with a full re- 
solution. Come, go to, 1 will he wise ! I 
read farming books , I calculated crops : 
I attended markets ; and, in short, in spite 
of the devil, and the world, and thejlesh, I 
believe I should have been a wise man ; 
but the first year, from unfortunately buy- 
mg bad seed, the second, from a late har- 
vest, we lost half our crops. This over- 
set all my wisdom, and I returned, like 
the dog to his vomit, and the sow that was 
washed, to her wallowing in the mire.\ 

I now began to be known in the neigh- 

* Rob tlie Rliynicr's Welcome toliis Bastard Child 
\ See Apppiiilix, No. II. No:e B. 



bourhood as a maker of rhymes. The 
first of my poetic offspring that saw the 
light, was a burlesque lamentation on a 
quarrel between two reverend Calvinists, 
both of them dramatis personce in my 
Holy fair. I had a notion myself, that 
the piece had some merit ; but to prevent 
the worst, I gave a copy of it to a friend 
who was very fond of such things, and 
told him that I could not guess who was 
ihe author of it, but that I thought it 
pretty clever. With a certain descrip- 
tion of the clergy, as well as laity, it met 
with a roar of applause. Holy Willie's 
Prayer next made its appearance, and 
alarmed the kirk-session so much, that 
they held several meetings to look over 
their spiritual artillery, if haply any of it 
might be pointed against profane rhymers. 
Unluckily for me, my wanderings led me 
on another side, within point-blank shot 
of their heaviest metal. This is the un- 
fortunate story that gave rise to my print- 
ed poem, T/ie Lament. This was a most 
melancholy affair, which I cannot yet bear 
to reflect on, and had very nearly given me 
one or two of the principal qualifications 
for a place among those who have lost 
the chart, and mistaken the reckoning of 
Rationality.* I gave up my part of the 
farm to my brother ; in truth it was only 
nominally mine ; and made what little 
preparation was in my power for Jamaica. 
But before leaving my native country for 
ever, I resolved to publish my poems. I 
weighed my productions as impartially as 
was in my power ; I thought they had 
merit ; and it was a delicious idea that I 
should be called a clever fellow, even 
though it should never reach my ears — 
a poor negro driver ; — or perhaps a vic- 
tim to that inhospitable clime, and gone 
to the world of spirits ! I can truly say, 
that pauvre inconnu as I then was, I had 
pretty nearly as high an idea of myself 
and of my works as I have at this mo- 
ment, when the public has decided in 
their favour. It ever was my opinion, 
that the mistakes and blunders, both in 
a rational and religious point of view, of 
which we see thousands daily guilty, are 
owing to their ignorance of themselves. 
To know myself had been all along my 
constant study. I weighed myself alone; 
I balanced myself with others; I watch- 
ed every means of information, to see how 
much ground I occupied as a man and as 
a poet ; I studied assiduously Nature's 
design in my formation — where the lights 

* An explanation of tliis will be found hereafter. 



16 



THE LIFP] OF BURNS. 



and shades in my character were intend- 
ed. 1 was pretty confident my poems 
would meet with some applause ; but, at 
the worst the roar of the Atlantic would 
deafen the voice of censure, and the no- 
velty of West Indian scenes make me 
forget neglect. I threw off six hundred 
copies, of which I had got subscriptions 
for about three hundred and fifty. — My 
vanity was highly gratified by the recep- 
tion I met with from the public ; and be- 
sides I pocketed, all expenses deducted, 
nearly twenty pounds. This sum came 
very seasonably, as I was thinking of in- 
denting myself, for want of money to pro- 
cure my passage. As soon as I was mas- 
ter of nine guineas, the price of wafting 
lie to the torrid zone, I took a steerage- 
passage in the first ship that was to sail 
from the Clyde ; for, 

" Hungry ruin had me in the wind."' 

"I had been for some days skulking 
from covert to covert, under all the ter- 
rors of a jail; as some ill-advised people 
had uncoupled the merciless pack of the 
law at my heels. I had taken the fare- 
well of my few friends ; my chest was on 
the road to Greenock ; I had composed 
the last song I should ever measure in 
Caledonia, The gloomy nigJtt is gathering 
fast, when a letter from Dr. Blacklock, 
to a friend of mine, overthrew all my 
schemes, by opening new prospects to my 
poetic ambition. The Doctor belonged 
to a set of critics, for whose applause I 
had not dared to hope. His opinion that 
I would meet with encouragement in 
Edinburgh for a second edition, fired me 
so much, that away I posted for that city, 
without a single acquaintance, or a sin- 
gle letter of introduction. The baneful 
star which had so long shed its blasting 
infir.ence in my zenith, for once made a 
revolution to the nadir ; and a kind Pro- 
vidence placed me under the patronage 
of one of the noblest of men, the Earl of 
Glencairn. Onblie moi, Grand Dieu, si 
jamais je I'ouhlie ! 

" I need relate no farther. At Edin- 
burgh I v/as in a new world ; I mingled 
among many classes of men, but all of 
them new to me, and 1 was all attention 
to catth the characters and the manners 
living as they rise. Whether I have pro- 
fited, time will show. 



• My most respectful compliments to 



Miss W. Her very elegant and friendly 
letter I cannot answer at present, as my 
presence is requisite in Edinburgh, and I 
set out to-morrow."* 



At the period of our poet's death, hig 
brother, Gilbert Burns, was ignorant that 
he had himself written the foregoing nar 
rative of his life while in Ayrshire ; and 
having been applied to by Mrs. Dunlop 
for some memoirs of liis brother, he com- 
plied with her request in a letter, from 
which the following narrative is chiefly 
extracted. When Gilbert Burns after- 
wards saw the letter of our poet to Dr. 
Moore, he made some annotations upon 
it, which shall be noticed as we proceed. 

Robert Burns was born on the 25th day 
of January, 1759, in a small house about 
two miles from the town of Ayr, and with- 
in a few hundred yards of AUoway church, 
which his poem of Tarn o' Shanter has 
rendered immortal. f The name which 
the poet and his brother modernized into 
Burns, was originally Burnes, or Burness. 
Their father, William Burnes, was the 
son of a farmer in Kincardineshire, and 
had received the education common in 
Scotland to persons in his condition of life ; 
he could read and write, and had some 
knowledge of arithmetic. His family 
having fallen into reduced circumstances, 
he was compelled to leave his home in his 
nineteenth year, and turned his steps to- 
wards the south in quest of a livelihood. 
The same necessity attended his elder 
brother Robert. " T have often heard 
my father," says Gilbert Burns, in his 
letter to Mrs. Dunlop, " describe the an- 
guish of mind he felt when they parted 
on the top of a hill on the confines of their 
native place, each going off his several 
way in search of new adventures, and 
scarcely knowing whither he went. My 
father undertook to act as a gardener, 

* Tl)ere am various copies of this letter in the au- 
tlior's hand-writing; and one of these, evidently cor- 
rected, is in tlie book in which he liad copied severnl 
of his letters. Tliis has been used for the press, with 
jonie omissions, and one sUght alteration suggested by 
Gilbert Burns. 

t This house is on the right-hand side of the road 
from Ayr to Maybole, which forms a part of the road 
from Glasgow to Port Patrick. When the poet's la- 
ther afterwards removed to Taiboltoii parish, he sold 
his leiisehold right in lliis house, and a few acres o( 
land adjoiniiig, to the corporation of shoemakers in Ayr. 
li is now a country ale-house. 



THE LIFE OF BURNS 



17 



and shaped his course to Edmbnrgh, 
where he wrought hard when he could get 
work, passing through a variety of dilh- 
culties. Stil], however, he endeavoured 
to spare something for the support of his 
aged parents : and I recollect hearing 
him mention his having sent a bank-note 
for this purpose, when money of that kind 
was so scarce m Kincardineshire, that 
they scarcely knew how to employ it 
when it arrived." From Edinburgh, 
William Barnes passed westward into 
tl'e county of Ayr, where he engaged 
himself as a gardener to the laird of Fairly, 
with whom he lived two years; then 
changing his service for that of Crawford 
of Doonside. At length, being desirous 
of settling in life, he took a perpetual 
lease of seven acres of land from Dr. 
Campbell, physician in Ayr, with the 
view of commencing nurseryman and 
public gardener ; and having built a house 
upon it with his own hands, married, in 
December 1757, Agnes Brown, the mo- 
ther of our poet, who still survives. The 
first fruit of this marriage was Robert, 
the subject of these memoirs, born on the 
25th of January, 1759, as has already 
been mentioned. Before William Barnes 
had made much progress in preparing his 
nurser}'', he was withdrawn from that un- 
dertaking by Mr. Ferguson, who pur- 
chased the estate of Doonholm, in the 
immediate neighbourhood, and engaged 
him as his gardener and overseer ; and 
this was his situation when our poet 
was born. Though in the service of Mr. 
Ferguson, he lived in his own house, his 
wife managing her family and her little 
dairy, which consisted sometimes of two, 
sometimes of three milch cows; and this 
state of unambitious content continued 
till the year 17Gr). His son Robert was 
sent by him in his sixth year, to a school 
at Alloway Miln, about a mile distant, 
taught by a person of the name of Camp- 
Dell ; but this teacher being in a few 
months appointed master of the work- 
house at Ayr, William Burnes, in con- 
junction with some other heads of fami- 
ies, engaged John Murdoch in his stead. 
The education of our poet, and of his 
orother Gilbert, was in common ; and of 
their proficiency under Mr. jMurdoch, we 
have the following account : " With him 
we learnt to read English toleVably vvell,'^ 
and to write a little. He taught us, too, 
the English grammar. I was too young 
to profit much from his lessons in gram- 

• liBtter from Gilbert Burns to Mrs. Dunlop. 



mar ; but Robert made some proficiency 
in it — a circumstance of considerable 
weight in the unfolding of his genius and 
character ; as he soon became remarkable 
for the fluency and correctness of his ex- 
pression, and read the few books that 
came in his way with much pleasure and 
improvement ; for even then he was a 
reader when he could get a book. Mur- 
doch, whose library at that time had no 
great variety in it, lent him The Life nf 
Hannibdl, which was the first book he 
read (the schoolbook excepted,) and al- 
most the only one he had an opportunity 
of reading while he was at school : for 
Tfie Life of Wallace, which he classes 
with it in one of his letters to you, he did 
not see for some years afterwards, when 
he borrowed it from the blacksmith who 
shod our horses." 

It appears that William Burnes ap- 
proved himself greatly in the service of 
Mr. Ferguson, by his intelligence, indus- 
try, and integrity. In consequence of 
this with a view of promoting his inter- 
est, Mr. Ferguson leased him a farm, of 
which we have the following account : 

" The farm was upwards of seventy 
acres* (between eighty and ninety English 
statute measure,) the rent of which was to 
be forty pounds annually for the first six 
years, and afterwards forty-five pounds. 
My father endeavoured to sell his lease- 
hold property, for the purpose of stocking 
this farm, but at that time was unable, 
and Mr. Ferguson lent him a hundred 
pounds for that purpose. He removed to 
his new situation at Whitsuntide, 1766. 
It was, I think, not above two years after 
this, that Murdoch, our tutor and friend, 
left this part of tiie country ; and there 
being no school near us, and our little 
services being useful on the farm, my 
father tmdertook to teach us arithmetic 
in the winter evenings by canrlle-light ; 
and in this way my two eldest sisters got 
all the education they received. I remem- 
ber a circumstance that happened at this 
time, which, though trifling in itself, is 
fresh in my memory, and may servo to 
illustrate the early character of my bro- 
ther. Murdoch came to spend a night 
with us. and to take his leave when he 
was about to go into Carrick. He 
brought US, as a present and memorial of 
him, a small compendium of English 

* I,etler of Gilbert Rums to Mrs. Duiilnp. The 
name of tnis farin is Muuiit OHphant, in Ayr parish. 



18 

Grammar, and the tragedy of Titus An- 
dronirus, and by way of passing tlie 
evening, he began to read the play aloud. 
We were all attention for some time, till 
presently the whole party was dissolved 
in tears. A female in tlie play (I have 
but a confused remembrance of it) had 
her hands chopt off, and her tongue cut 
out, and then was insultingly desired to call 
for water to wash her hands. At this, in 
an agony of distress, we with one voice de- 
sired he would read no more. My father 
observed, that if we would not hear it out, 
it would be needless to leave the play with 
us. Robert replied, that if it was left he 
would burn it. My father was going to 
chide him for tliis ungrateful return' to 
his tutor's kindness ; but Murdoch inter- 
fered, declaring that he liked to see so 
much sensibility ; and he left The, School 
for Love, a comedy (translated I think 
from the French,) in its place."* 



" Nothing," continues Gilbert Burns, 
" could be more retired than our general 
manner of living at Mount Oliphant ; we 
rarely saw any body but the members of 
our own family. There were no boys of 
our own age, or near it, in the neigh- 
bourhood. Indeed the greatest part of 
the land in the vicinity was at that time 
possessed by shopkeepers, and people of 
that stamp, who had retired from busi- 
ness, or who kept their farm in the coun- 
try, at the same time that tlicy followed 
business in town. My father was for 
some time almost the only companion we 
had. He conversed familiarly on all sub- 
jects with us, as if we had been men; and 
was at great pains, while we accompanied 
him in the labours of the farm, to lead 

*It is to be remembered tbnt the poet was only nine 
years of age and the relator of this incident under eight, 
at the time it liappened. 'J'lir elfect was very natural 
in children of sensibility at tlieir age. At a more ma- 
ture period of tlie judgment, such absurd representa- 
tions are calculated rather to produce disgust or laugh- 
ter, than tears. The scene to which Gilbert Burns al- 
ludes, opens thus : 

Titvs JlndronicuSi Act 11. Scene 5. 

Enter Demetrius and Chiron, with Lavinia ravished, 
her hands cut off, and her tongue cut out. 

Why is this silly play still printed as Shakespeare's, 
against the opinion of all the best critics? The bard of 
Avon was guiliy of man\' extravagances, but he al- 
ways performed what he intended to- perform. That 
he ever excited in a British mind (for the French cri 
lies must be set aside) disgust or ridicule, where he 
meant to have awakened pity or horror, Is what will 
ot be imputed to that master of the passions. 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 

the conversation to such subjects a^ might 
tend to increase our knowledge, or con- 
firm us in virtuous habits. He borrowed 
Salmon's Geos^raphical Grammar for us, 
and endeavoured to make us acquainted 
with the situation and history of the dif- 
ferent countries in the world ; while from 
a book-society in Ayr, he procured for us 
the reading of Derham's Physico and 
Astro-Theology, und Ray's JFisdom of God 
in the Creation, to give us some idea ot 
astronomy and natural history. Robert 
read all these books with an avidity and 
industry, scarcely to be equalled. My 
father had been a subscriber to Stack- 
house's History of the Bible then lately 
published by James Meuross in Kilmar- 
nock : from this Robert collected a com.- 
petent knowledge of history ; for no book 
was so voluminous as to slacken his in- 
dustry, or so antiquated as to damp his 
researches. A brother of my mother, 
who had lived with us some time, and 
had learnt some arithmetic by winter 
evening's candle, went into a bookseller's 
shop in Ayr, to purchase The Ready Rec- 
koner or Tradesman's sure Guide, and a 
book to teach him to write letters. Luck- 
ily, in place of Tlie Complete Letter-Wri- 
ter, he got by mistake a small collection 
of letters by the most eminent writers, 
with a few sensible directions for attain- 
ing an easy epistolary style. This book 
was to Robert of the greatest conse- 
quence. It inspired him with a strong 
desire to excel in letter-writing, while it 
furnished him with models by some of 
the first writers in our lanjruajre. 



" My brother was about thirteen or 
fourteen, when my father, regretting that 
we wrote so ill, sent us, week about, 
during a summer quarter, to the parish 
school of Dalrymple, which, though be- 
tween two and three miles distant, was 
the nearest to ns, that we might have an 
opportunity of remedying this defect. 
About this time a bookish acquaintance 
of my father's procured us a reading of 
two volumes of Richardson's Pamela, 
which was the first novel we read, ami 
the only port of Richardson's works my 
brother was acquainted with till towards 
the period of his commencing author. 
Till that time too he remained unac- 
quainted with Fielding, with Smollet, 
(two volumes of Ferdinand Count Fathom, 
and two volumes of Peres;rine Pickle ex- 
cepted,) with Hume, with Robertson, and 
almost all our autjiors of eminence of 
the later times. I recollect indeed m^ 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



19 



father borrowed a volume of English his- 
tory from Mr. Hamilton of Bourtreehill's 
gardener. It treated of the reign of 
James the First, and his unfortunate son, 
Charles, but I do not know who was the 
author ; all that I remember of it is some- 
thing of Charles's conversation with his 
cialdrcn. About this time Murdoch, our 
former teacher, after having been in difter- 
ent places in the country,and having taught 
a school some time in Dumfries, came tube 
the established teacher of the English lan- 
guage in Ayr, a circumstance of considera- 
ble coj^sequence to us. The remembrance 
of my father's former friendship, and his 
attachment to my brother, made him do 
every thing in his power for our improve- 
ment. He sent us Pope's works, and 
6ome other poetry, the first that we had 
an opportunity of reading, excepting 
what is contained in The English Collec- 
tion, and in the volume of The Edinburgh 
Magazine for 1772;- excepting also those 
excellent nev> songs that are hawked about 
the country in baskets, or exposed on 
stalls in the streets. 

" The summer after we had been at 
Dalrymple school, my father sent Robert 
to Ayr, to revise his English grammar, 
with his former teacher. He had been 
there only one week, when he was obhged 
to return to assist at the harvest. When 
the harvest was over, he went back to 
school, where he remained two weeks ; 
and tills completes the account of his 
school education, excepting one summer 
quarter, some time afterwards, that he 
attended the parish school of Kirk-Os- 
wald, (where lie lived with a brother of 
my mother's,) to learn surveying. 

" During^ the two last weeks that he 
was with Murdoch, he himself was en- 
gaged in learning French, and he com- 
municated the instructions he received to 
my brother, who, when he returned, 
bronirht home with him a French diction- 
ary and grammar, and the Adventures of 
Telemachus in the original. In a little 
while, by the assistance of these books, 
he had acquired such a knov/ledge of the 
language, as to read and understand any 
French author in prose. This was con- 
sidered as a sort of prodigy, and through 
the medium of Murdoch, procured him 
*he acquaintance of several lads in Ayr, 
who were at that time gabbling French, 
and the notice of some families, particu- 
larly that of Dr. Malcolm, where a know- 
ledge of French was a recommendation. 



" Observing the facility with which he 
had acquired the French language, Mr. 
Robinson the established writing-master 
in Ayr, and Mr. Murdoch's particular 
friend, having himself acquired a consi- 
derable knowledge of the Latin language 
by his own industry, without ever having 
learnt it at school, advised Robert to 
make the same attempt, promising him 
every assistance in his power. Agreea- 
bly to this advice, he purchased The Rip- 
diments of the Latin Tongue, but finding 
this study dry and uninteresting, it was 
quickly laid aside. He frequently re- 
turned to his Rudiments on any little cha- 
grin or disappointment, particularly in 
his love afi^airs ; but the Latin seldom 
predominated more than a day or two 
at a time, or a week at most. Observ- 
ing himself the ridicule that would at- 
tach to this sort of conduct if it were 
known, he made two or three humorous 
stanzas on the subject, which I cannot 
now recollect, but they all ended, 

" So I'll to my Latin again." 

" Thus you see Mr. Murdoch was a 
principal means of my brother's improve- 
ment. Worthy man ; though foreign to 
my present purpose, I cannot take leave 
of him without tracing his future history. 
He continued for some years a respected 
and useful teacher at Ayr, till one even- 
ing that he had been overtaken in liquor, 
he happened to speak somewhat disre- 
spectfully of Dr. Dalrymple, the parish 
minister, who had not paid him that at 
tention to which he thought himself en- 
titled. In Ayr he might as well have 
spoken blasphemy. He found it proper 
to give up his appointment. He went to 
London, where he still lives, a private 
teacher of French. He has been a con- 
siderable time married, and keeps a shop 
of stationary wares. 

" The father of Dr. Patterson, now 
physician at Ayr, was, I believe a native 
of "Aberdeenshire, and was one of the es- 
tablished teachers in Ayr, when my fa- 
ther settled in the neighbourhood. He ear- 
ly recognized my father as a fellow native of 
the north of Scotland, and a certain de- 
gree of intimacy subsisted between them 
during Mr. Patterson's life. After his 
death, his widow, who is a very gented 
woman, and of great worth, delighted in 
doing what she thought her husnaiu! 
would have wished to have done, and as- 
siduously kept up her attentions to all his 



26 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



Bcqnaintanco. She kept aJive the inti- 
macy with our family, by frequontly in- 
vitin<r luy fathor and mother to iu-r lunisc 
on Sundays, wlien she met them atchurcli. 

" When she camo to know my bro- 
ther's passion tor books, she kindly otter- 
ed us the use of her l\usband's library, 
and from her we jjot the Spectator, Pope's 
Translation of Homer, and several other 
books that were of use to us. Mount 
Oliphant, the farm my father possessed 
in the parish of Ayr, is almost the very 
poorest soil I know of in a state of culti- 
vation. A stroncrer proof of this I can- 
not give, than that, notwitiistandiufj the 
extraordinary rise in the value of lands in 
Scotland, it was after a considerable sum 
laid out in improvinjr it by the proprietor, 
let a few years u<jo live pounds pi.^r an- 
num lower tlian the rent paid for it by 
my father thirty years ao-o. My father, 
in consequence of this, soon came into 
ditHculties, which were increased bv the 



he had a right to throw i* up, if he thorght 
proper, at tlie end of every sixth year. 
Ho attempted to tix himself in a better 
tarm at the end of the first six years, but 
failing in that attempt, he continued 
where he was for six years more. He 
then took the farm of Lochlea, of 130 
acres, at the rent of twenty shillings an 
acre, in the parish of Tarbolton, of Mr. 

, then a merchant in Ayr, and now 

(1707,) a merchant in Liverpool. He re- 
moved to this farm on Whitsunday, 1777, 
and possessed it only seven years. No 
writing had ever been made out of the 
conditions of the lease ; a misunderstand- 
ing took place respecting them ; the sub- 
jects in dispute were submitted to arbi- 
tration, and the decision involved my fa- 
ther's atlairs in ruin. He lived to know 
of this decision, but not to see any exe- 
cution in consequence of it. He died on 
the 13th of February, 1784. 

" The seven years we lived in Tarbol- 



?ral of his cattle by accidents ton parish (extending from the seven 
and disease. — To the butVetings of mis- | teenth to the twenty-fourth of my brO' 
fortune, we could only oppose hard la- 



bour, and tlie most rigid economy. We 
lived ver}' sparing. For several years 
butcher's meat was a stranger in the 
house, while all the members of the fami- 
ly exerted themselves to the utmost of 
their strength, and rather beyond it, in 
tlie labours of the farm. My brother, at 
the age of thirteen, assisted in thrashing 
the crop of corn, and at fifteen was tiie 
principal labourer on the farm, for we had 
no hired servant, male or female The an- 
guish of mind we felt at our tender years, 
under these straits and ditlicnlties, was 
very great. To think of our father grow- 
ing old (for he was now above tifty,) bro- 
ken down with the long continued tatigues 
of his life, witii a wife and five other chil- 
dren, and in a declining state of circum- 
stances, these rertections produced in my 
brother's mind and mine sensations of the 
deepest distress. I doubt not but the hard 
labour and sorrow of this period of his 
life, was in a great measure the cause of 
that depression of spirits with which Ro- 
bert was so often afflicted through his 
whole life afterwards. At this time he 
was almost constantly afflicted in the even- 
ings with a dull head-ache, which at a fu- 
ture period of his life, was exchanged for 
a palpitation of the heart, and a threat- 
eniug of tainting and suirocation in his 
led in the night-time. 

" Tly astipulation in my flither's lease, 



ther's age,) were not marked by much 
literary improvement ; but, during this 
time, the foundation was laid of certain 
habits in my brother's character, which 
afterwards became but too prominent, 
and which malice and envy have taken 
delight to enlarge on Though when 
young he was bashful an'l awkward in his 
intercourse with women, yet when he 
approached manhood, hi<=i attachment to 
their society became very strong, isnd he 
was constantly the victii'i of sorr^e fair 
enslaver. The symptoms of his pxssion 
were often such as nearly to equal those 
of the celebrated Sappho. 1 never indeed 
knew that he fainted, xunfc, and died a'<^ay; 
but the agitations of his mind and body 
exceeded any thing of the kind I ever 
knew in real life. He had aLvays a "^ar- 
ticular iealousy of people who were ric*^oi 
than himself, or who had more cone«- 
quence in life. His love, there^'ore, rar<»- 
ly settled on persons of this de<v,riptio»v. 
When he selected .any one otvt of th* 
sovereignty of his good pleasure, 1 whoro 
he should pav his particular attent'on, she 
was instantly invested with a sv\*Scieni 
stock of charms, out of a plentiful store 
of his own imagination; and there was 
of>er. a great dissimilitude between hia 
fair captivator, as she appeared to others, 
and as she seemed when invested with 
the attributes he gave her. One gene- 
rally reigned parnmount in his alTectiona 
but as Yorick's aiVcctions flowed out to- 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



«i 



ward Madam de L — at tlie remise door, 
while the eternal vows of Eliza were 
upon him, so Robert was frequently en- 
countering other attractions, which form- 
ed so many underplots in the drama of 
his love. As these connexions were go- 
verned by the strictest rules of virtue and 
modesty (from which he never deviated 
till lie reached his 23d year,) he became 
anxious to be in a situation to marry. 
This was not likely to be soon tlie case 
wliiio he remained a farmer, as the stock- 
ing of a farm required a sum of money 
he had no probability of being master of 
for a great while. He began, therefore, 
to think of trying some other line of life. 
He and I had for several years taken land 
of my father for the purpose of raising 
flax on our own account. In the course 
of selling it, Robert began to think of 
turning Hax-dresser, both as being suita- 
ble to his grand view of settling in life, 
and as subservient to the flax raising. He 
accordingly wrought at the business of a 
flax-dresser in Irvine for six months, but 
abandoned it at that period, as neither 
agreeing with his health nor inclination. 
In Irvine he had contracted some acquaint- 
ance of a freer manner of thinking and 
living than he had been used to, whose 
society prepared him for overleaping the 
bounds of rigid virtue which had hitherto 
restrained him. Towards the end of the 
period under review (in his 24th year,) 
and soon after his father's death, he was 
furnished with the subject of his epistle 
to John Ranklin. During this period 
also he became a freemason, which was 
his first introduction to the life of a boon 
companion. Yet, notwithstanding these 
circumstances, and the praise he has be- 
stowed on Scotch drink (which seems to 
have misled his historians,) I do not re- 
collect, during these seven years, nor till 
towards the end of his commencing au- 
thor (when his growing celebrity occa- 
sioned his being often in company,) to 
have ever seen him intoxicated ; nor was 
he at all given to drinking. A stronger 
proof of the general sobriety of his con- 
duct need not be required than what I am 
about to give. During the whole of the 
time we lived in the farm of Lochlea with 
my father, he allowed my brother and 
me such wages for our labour as he gave 
to other labourers, as a part of which, 
every article of our clothing manufactured 
in the family was regularly accounted for. 
When my father's affairs drew near a 
crisis, Robert and I took the farm of 
Mossgiel, consisting of 118 acres, at the 



rent of 90^. per annum (the farm on whic^ 
I live at present,) from Mr. Gavin Ham- 
ilton, as an asylum for the family in case 
of the worst. It was stocked by the pro- 
perty and individual savings' of the whole 
family, and was a joint concern among 
us. Every member of the family was 
allowed ordinary wages for the labour he 
performed on the farm. My brotlier's 
allowance and mine was seven pounds 
per annum each. And during the whole 
time this family concern lasted, which 
was for four years, as well as during the 
preceding period at Lochlea. his expenses 
never in any one year exceeded his slen- 
der income. As I was entrusted with the 
keeping of the family accounts, it is not 
possible that there can be any fallacy in 
this statement in my brother's favour. 
His temperance and frugality were every 
thing that could be wished. 

" The farm of Mossgiel lies very high, 
and mostly on a cold wet bottom. The 
first four years that we were on the farm 
were very frosty, and the spring was very 
late. Our crops in consequence were 
very unprofitable ; and, notwithstanding 
our utmost diligence and economy, we 
found ourselves obliged to give up our 
bargain, with the loss of a considerable 
part of our original stock. It was during 
these four years that Robert formed his 
connexion with Jean Armour, afterwards 
Mrs. Burns. This connexion could no longer 
he conccnlod, about the time we came 
to a final determination to quit the farm. 
Robert durst not engage with his family 
in his poor unsettled state, but was anx- 
ious to shield his partner, by every means 
in his power, from the consequence of 
their imprudence. It was agreed there- 
fore between them, that they should make 
a legal acknowledgment of an irregular 
and private marriage ; that he should go 
to Jamaica to push kis fortune ! and that 
she should remain with her father till it 
might please Providence to put the means 
of supporting a family in his power. 

" Mrs. Burns was a great favourite of 
her father's. The intimation of a mar- 
riage was the first suggestion he received 
of her real situation. lie was in the 
greatest distress, and fainted away. The 
marriage did not appear lo him to make 
the matter better. A husband in Jamai- 
ca appeared to him and his wife little bet- 
ter than none, and an effectual bar to any 
other prospects of a settlement in life 
I hat their daughter might have. They 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



therefore expressed a wish to her, that 
the written papers which respected the 
marriage should be cancelled, and thus 
the marriage rendered void. In her me- 
lancholy state she felt the deepest re- 
morse at having brought such heavy af- 
fliction on parents that loved her so ten- 
derly, and submitted to their entreaties. 
Their wish was mentioned to Robert. 
He felt the deepest anguish of mind. He 
offered to stay at home and provide for 
his wife and family in the best manner 
that his daily labours could provide for 
them ; that being the only means in his 
power. Even this offer they did not ap- 
prove of; for humble as Miss Armour's 
station was, and great though her impru-- 
dence had been, she still, in the eyes of 
her partial parents, might look to a better 
connexion than that with my friendless 
and unhappy brother, at that time without 
house or biding place. Robert at length 
consented to their wishes ; buthis feelings 
on this occasion were of the most dis- 
tracting nature : and the impression of 
sorrow was not effaced, till by a regular 
marriage they were indissolubly united. 
In the state of mind which this sepa'-a- 
tion produced, he wished to leave the 
country as soon as possible, and agreed 
with Dr. Douglas to go out to Jamaica 
as an assistant overseer ; or, as I believe 
it is called, a book-keeper, on his estate. 
As he had not sufficient money to pay his 
passage, and the vessel in which. Dr. 
Douglas was to procure a passage for him 
was not expected to sail for some time, 
Mr. Hamilton advised him to publish his 
poems in the mean time by subscription, 
as a likely way of getting a little money, 
to provide him more liberally in necessa- 
ries for Jamaica. Agreeably to this ad- 
vice, subscription bills were printed im- 
mediately, and the printing was com- 
menced at Kilmarnock, his preparations 
going on at the same time for his voy- 
age. The reception, however, which his 
poems met with in the world, and the 
friends they procured him, made him 
change his resolution of going to Jamai- 
ca, and he was advised to go to Edin- 
burgh to publish a second edition. On 
his return, in happier circumstances, he 
renewed his connexion with Mrs. Burns, 
and rendered it permanent by a union for 
life. 

" Thus, Madam, have I endeavoured 
to give you a simple narrative of the lead- 
ing circumstances in my brother's early 
life. The remaining part he spent in 



Edinburgh, or in Dumfriesshire, and its 
incidents are as well known to you as to 
me. His genius having procured him 
your patronage and friendship, this gave 
rise to the correspondence between you, 
in which, I beheve, his sentiments were 
delivered with the most respectful, but 
most unreserved confidence, and which 
only terminated with the last days of his 
life." 



This narrative of Gilbert Burns may 
serve as a commentary on the preceding 
sketch of our poet's life by himself. It 
will be seen that the distraction of mind 
which he mentions {p. 16.) arose from the 
distress and sorrow in which he had in- 
volved his future wife. — The whole cir- 
cumstances attending this connexion are 
certainly of a very singular nature.* 

The reader will perceive, from the 
foregoing narrative, iiow much the chil- 
dren of William Burnes were indebted to 
their father, who was certainly a man of 
uncommon talents ; though it does not 
appear that he possessed any portion of 
that vivid imagination for which the sub- 
ject of these memoirs was distinguished. 
In page 13, it is observed by our poet, 
that his father had an unaccountable an- 
tipathy to dancing-schools, and that hia 
attending one of these brought on him his 
displeasure, and even dislike. On this 
observation Gilbert has made the follow- 
ing remark, which seems entitled to im- 
plicit credit : — " I wonder how Robert 
could attribute to our father that lasting 
resentment of his going to a dancing- 
scliool against his will, of which he was 
incapable. I believe the truth was, that 
he, about this time began to see the dan- 
gerous impetuosity of my brother's pas- 
sions, as well as his not being amenable 
to counsel, which often irritated my fa- 
ther ; and which he would naturally think 
a dancing-school was not likely to correct. 
But he was proud of Robert's genius, 
which he bestowed more expense in cul- 
tivating than on the rest of the family, in 
the instances of sending him to Ayr and 
Kirk-Oswald schools; and he was greatly 
delighted with his warmth of heart, and 

* In page 16, the poet mentions his — " skulking from 
covert to covert, uimer the terror of a jail." The 
" pack of the law" was " uncoupled at his lieels," to 
ohlise him tti find security for the maintenance of hia 
twin children, whom he was not permitted to legUi- 
mate by a marria|;e with their mother. 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



23 



his conversational powers. He had in- 
deed that dishke of dancing-schools which 
Robert mentions; but so Jar overcame it 
during Robert's first month of attendance, 
that he allowed all the rest of the family 
that were fit for it to accompany him du- 
ring the second month. Robert excelled 
in dancing, and was for some time dis- 
tractedly fond of it." 

In the original letter to Dr. Moore, onr 
poet described his ancestors as " renting 
lands of the noble Keiths of Marischal, and 
as having had the honour of sharing their 
fate." " I do not," continues he, " use 
the word honour with any reference to 
political principles ; loyal and disloyal, I 
take to be merely relative terms, in that 
ancient and formidable court, known in 
this country by the name of Club-law, 
where the right is always with the strong- 
est. But those who dare welcome ruin, 
and shake hands with infamy, for what 
they sincerely believe to be the cause of 
their God, or their king, are, as Mark 
Antony says in Shakespeare of Brutus and 
Cassius, honourable men. I mention this 
circumstance because it threw my father 
on the world at large." 

This paragraph has been omitted in 
printing the letter, at the desire of Gil- 
bert Burns ; and it would have been un- 
necessary to have noticed it on the pre- 
sent occasion, had not several manuscript 
copies of that letter been in circulation. 
" I do not know," observes Gilbert Burns, 
" how my brother could be misled in the 
account he has given of the Jacobitism of 
his ancestors. — I believe the earl Maris- 
chal forfeited his title and estate in 1715, 
before my father was born ; and among 
a collection of parish certificates in his 
possession, I have read one, stating that 
the bearer had no concern in the late 
wicked rebellion." On the information of 
one, who knew William Barnes soon af- 
ter he arrived in the county of Ayr, it 
may be mentioned, that a report did pre- 
vail, that he had taken the field with the 
young Chevalier ; a report which the cer- 
tificate mentioned by his son was, perhaps, 
intended to counteract. Strangers from 
the north, settling in the low country of 
Scotland, were in tiiose days liable to sus- 
picions of having been, in the familiar 
phrase of the country, " Out in the forty- 
five, " (1745) especially when they had 
any stateliness or reserve about them, as 
was the case with William Burnes. It 
may easily be conceived, that our poet 



would cherish the belief of his father's 
having been engaged in the daring enter 
prise of Prince Charles Edward. The 
generous attachment, the heroic valour, 
and the final misfortunes of the adherents 
of the house of Stewart, touched with 
sympathy his youthful and ardent mind, 
and influenced his original political opi- 
nions.* 

The father of our poet is described by 
one who knew him towards the latter end 
of his life, as above the common stature, 
thin, and bent with labour. His counte- 
nance was serious and expressive, and 
the scanty locks on his head were gray. 
He was of a religious turn of mind, and, 
as is usual among the Scottish peasantry, 
a good deal conversant in speculative 
theology. There is in Gilbert's hands a 
little manual of religious belief, in the 
form of a dialogue between a father and 
his son, composed by him for the use of 
his children, in which the benevolence of 
his heart seems to have led him to soften 
the rigid Calvinism of the Scottish 
Church, into something approaching to 
Arminianism. He was a devout man, and 
in the practice of calling his family toge- 
ther to join in prayer. It is known that 
the exquisite picture, drawn in stanzas 

* There is another observation of Gilbert Bums on 
his brother's narrative, in which some persons will be 
interested. It refers to where the poet speaks of his 
youthful friends. " My brother," says Gilbert Burns, 
" seems to set off his early companions in too conse- 
quential a manner. The principal acquaintances we 
had m Ayr, while boys, were four sons of Mr- Andrew 
M'Culloch, a distant relation of my mother's, who kept 
a tea shop, and had made a little money in the contra- 
band trade very common at that time. He died while 
the boys were young, and my father was nominated 
one of the tutors. The two eldest were bred up shop- 
keepers, the third a surgeon, and the youngest, tlis 
only surviving one, was bred in a counting-house in 
Glasgow, where he is now a respectable merchant. I 
believe all these boys went to the West Indies. Then 
there were two sons of Dr. Malcolm, whom I have 
mentioned in my letter to Mrs. Dunlop. The eldest, 
a very worthy young man, went to the East Indies, 
where he had a commission in the army ; he is the 
person whose heart my brother says the Many Begun 
scenes could not corrupt. The other by the interest 
of Lady Wallace, got an ensigtuy in a regiment raised 
by the Duke of Hamilton, during the American war 
I believe neither of them are now (1797) alive. We 
also knew the present Dr. Paterson of Ayr, and a 
younger brother of liis now in Jamaica, who were 
nuich younger than us. I had almost forgot to mention 
Dr. Charles of Ayr, vvho was a little older than my 
brother, and with whom we had a longer and clos«r 
intimacy than with any of the others, which did not, 
however, continue in after life." 



24 THE LIFE OF BURNS 

xii. xiii. xiv. xv xvi. and xviii. of tho Cot- 
ter's Saturdai/ JV7i;/(<, rp])resents William 
Burnos and liis family at their evening 
devotions. 



Ofa family so intcrcstinjr as thnt which 
jihabited tlie cottasj'e of William Bnrnes, 
and particularly of tho father of the fami- 
Iv, the reader will perha])s be willinjr to 
list(>n to some farther account. What 
follows is jviven by one already mentioned 
with so nuich honour in the narrative of 
Gilbert Burns, Mr. Murdoch, the precep- 
tor of our poet, who, in a letter to .Toseph 
Cooper VV^ilker, Esq. of Dublin, author 
of tho Historical .Memoirs of the Irish 
Bards, and the lllstorkal Memoirs of the 
Italian Tragedy, thus expresses himself: 

" Sir, — I was lately favoured with a 
letter from our worthy friend, the Rev. 
Wui. Adair, in which he requested me to 
conununieafe to you whatever particulars 
I could recollect concerniniT Robert Burns, 
the Ayrshire poet. My busint'ss being at 
present nmltifarious and harassing, my 
attention is consequently so Tuuch divided, 
and I am so little in the habit of express- 
ingf my thoughts on paper, that at this 
distance of time T can i^ive but a very im- 
piniect sketch of the early part of the life 
of that extraordinary genius, with which 
alone I am acquainted. 

'' William Burnos, the father of the po- 
et, was born in the shire of Kincardine, 
and bred a gardener. lie had hcen set- 
tled in Ayrsiiire ten or twelve years be- 
fore 1 knew him, and had been in the ser- 
vice of Mr. Crawford, of Doonside. He 
was afterwards emi>loyed as a gardener 
and overseer by Provost Ferguson of 
Doouholm, in the parish of Alloway, which 
is now united with that of Ayr. \\\ this 
parish, on the road side, a Scotch mile 
and a half from the town of Ayr, and half 
a niile from the bridge of Doon, William 
Bvirnes took a piece of land, consisting of 
about seven acres; part of which he laid 
out in garden ground, and part of which 
lie kept to graze a cow, &c. still contimi- 
ing in tho (Mnploy of Provost Ferguson, 
llpon this little farm was erectivl an hum- 
ble dwelling, of which William Burnes 
was the architect. It was, with the ex- 
ception ofa little straw, literally a taber- 
nn do of clay. In this mean cottage, of 
which I myself was at times an inhabitant, 
1 really believe there dwelt a larger por- 
tion of content than in any palace in Eu- 
rope The Cotter's Saturdai/ J\''ight will 



give some idea of the temper and man- 
ners that prevailed there. 



" In 1765, about the middle of March, 
Mr. W. Burnes came to Ayr, and sent to 
the school where I was im]H'oving in wri- 
ting, under my good friend Mr. Robinson, 
desiring that 1 would come and speak to 
him at a certain inn, and bring my writ- 
ing-book with me. This was inmH:'diately 
complied with. Having examined my 
writing, he was pleased with it — (you will 
readily allow he was not difficult,) and 
told me tliat he had rec(nved very satis- 
factory information of Mr. Tennaut, tha 
master of the English school, concerning 
my improvement in English, and his me- 
tliod of teaching. In the month of May 
t()llowing, I was engaged by Mr. Burnes, 
and four of his neighbours, to teach, and 
accordingly began to teach the little 
school at Alloway, which was situated a 
few yards from the argillaceous fabric 
above-mentioned. My five employers un- 
dertook to board me by turns, and to make 
up a certain salary, at the end of the year, 
provided my quarterly payments from the 
ditferent pupils did not amount to that 
sum. 

" My pupil, Robert Burns, was then 
between six and seven years of age ; his 
preceptor about eighteen. Robert, and 
his younger brother, Gilbert, had been 
grounded a little in English before they 
were put under my care. They both 
made a rapid progress in reading, and a 
toleral)lc progress in writing. In read- 
ing, dividing words into syllables by rule, 
spelling without book, parsing sentences, 
&c. Robert and Gilbert were generally at 
the ui)per end of the class, even when 
ranged with boys by far their seniors. 
The books most commonly used in the 
school wore the Spellins: Book, the Jfcw 
Testament, the Bible, Mason's Collection 
of prose and verse, and Fisher's Kn<:;'lish 
Grammar. They committed to memory 
the hymns, and other poems of that co\- 
lection, with uncommon facility. This 
fncility was partly owing to the method 
pursiu^d by their father and me in instruct- 
ing them, which was, to make them tho- 
roughly acquainted with the meaning of 
every word in each sentence that was to 
be committed to memory. By the by, 
this may be easier done, and at an eaihcr 
period than is generally thought. As soon 
as they were capable of it, I taught them 
to turn verse into its natural prose order ; 
sometimes to substitute synonymous C-S- 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



25 



pressions for poetical words, and to sup- 
ply all tlie cllipscH. Tluise, you know, 
uro the means of knowing that the pupil 
understands liitJ author. These are ex- 
cellent lielpsto the arrangement of words 
in sentences, as well as to a variety of 
expression. 

" Gilbert always appeared to me to 
possess a more lively imagination, and to 
be more of tiie wit than Robert. 1 at- 
tempted to teach tliem a little churcli- 
music : here they were left far behind by 
all the rest of the school. Robert's ear, 
in particular, was remarkably dull, and 
liis voice untunable. It was long before 
I could get them to distinguisii one tune 
from another. Robert's countenance was 
generally grave, ami expressive of a se- 
rious, contemplative, and thoughtful mind. 
Gilbert's face said, .Alirth, vj'dli thee Imcrm 
to live; and c(>rtainly, if any person who 
knew the two boys, had been asked which 
of them was most likely to court the 
muses, he would surely never have guess- 
ed that Robert had a propensity of that 
kind. 

" In the year 17G9, Mr. Burnes quitted 
his mud edifice, and took possession of a 
farm (Mount 01ii)hant) of his own im- 
proving, while in the service of Provost 
J'crguson. This farm being at a consider- 
able distance from the school, the boys 
could not attend regularly ; and some 
changes taking place among the other 
supporters of the school, I left it, having 
continued to conduct it for nearly two 
years and a half. 

" In the year 1 772, I was appointed 
(being one of five candidates who were 
examined) to teach the English school at 
Ayr; and in 177:5, Robert Burns came to 
board and lodgit with me, for the purpose 
of revising the English grammar. Sec. that 
he might be better tpialified to instruct 
his brothers and sisters at home. lie 
was now with me day and night in school, 
at all meals, and in all my walks. At the 
end of one week, I told him, that as he 
was now pretty much master of the parts 
of speech, &c. I should like to teach him 
something of French pronunciation ; that 
when ho should meet with the name of a 
French town, ship, officer, or the like, in 
the newspapers, he might be able to pro- 
nounce it something like a French word. 
Robert was glad to hear this proposal, 
and immediately we attacked the French 
with great courage. 



" Now there was little else to be heard 
but the declension of nouns, the conjuga 
tion of verbs, &c. When walking toge- 
ther, and even at meals, I was constantly 
telling hiin the names of dillcrent objects, 
as they presented themselves, in French; 
so that he was hourly laying in a stock of 
words, and soiiKjtimes little phrases. In 
short, he took such pleasure in learning, 
and 1 in teaching, that it was diificult to 
say which of tlie two was most zealous 
in the business; and about the end of the 
second week of our study of the French, 
we began to read a li1tl(! of the Jldvcn- 
turea of Telemachus, in Fenclon's own 
words. 

" But now the plains of Mount Oliphant 
began to whiten, and Robert was sum- 
moned to relin(prish the pleasing scenes 
tliat surrounded the grotto of Calypso ; 
and, armed with a sickle, to seek glory 
by signalizing himself in tlie fi(dds of Ce- 
res — and so he did ; for although but 
about fifteen, I was told that he perform- 
ed the work of a man. 

" Thus was I deprived of my very apt 
pupil, and consequently agrcjoable com- 
panion, at the end of three weeks, one of 
which was spent entirely in the study of 
English, and the other two chiefly in that 
of French. I did not, however, lose sight 
of him ; but was a frequent visitant at his 
father's house, when I had my half-holi- 
day ; and very often went, accompjinied 
with one or two persons more intelligent 
than myself, that good William Burnes 
might enjoy a mental fenst. Then the 
labouring oar was shifted to some other 
hand. The father and the son sat down 
with us, when we enjoyed a conversation, 
wherein solid reasoning, sensible remark, 
and a moderate seasoning of jocularity, 
W(!re so nicely blended as to render it ])a- 
latablo to all |)!irties. Rob(;rt had a hun- 
dred (piestions to ask me about the French, 
&.C. ; and the father, who had always ra- 
tional information in view, had still some 
question to propose to my more learned 
friends, upon moral or natural ])liilosophy, 
or some such interesting subject. Mrs. 
Burnes too was of the party as much as 
possible ; 

' Rut slill the liousoatTiiits would firaw lior thence 
Which cvfir as she could with liasli! despatch, 
Blic'd coine a^airi, aud witli a greedy ear, 
Devour up tlieir discourse.' — 

and particularly that of her husband. At 
all times, and in all companies, she listen 



26 

ed to him with a more marked attention 
than to any body else. When under the 
necessity of being absent while he was 
speakintr, she seemed to regret, as a real 
loss, that she had missed what the good 
man had said. This worthy woman, Ag- 
nes Brown, had the most thorough esteem 
for her husband of any woman I ever 
knew. I can by no means wonder that 
she Iiighly esteemed him ; for I myself 
have always considered William Burnes 
as by far the best of the human race that 
ever T had the pleasure of being acquaint- 
ed with — and many a wortliy character I 
have known. I can cheerfully join with 
Robert, in tiio last line of his epitaph (bor- 
rowed from Goldsmith,) 

" And even his failings lean'd to virtue's side." 



" Ho was an excellent husband; if I 
may judge from his assiduous attention 
to the ease and comfort of his worthy 
partner, and from her affectionate be- 
haviour to him, as well as her unwearied 
attention to the duties of a mother. 

" He was a tender and affectionate 
father ; he took pleasure in leading his 
children in the path of virtue ; not in 
driving tiiem as some parents do, to the 
performance of duties to which they them- 
selves are averse. He took care to find 
fault but very seldom ; and therefore, 
wlien he did rebuke, he was listened to 
with a kind of reverential awe. A look 
ot*disapprobation was felt; a reproof was 
severely so ; and a stripe with the tawz, 
even on the skirt of the coat, gave heart- 
felt pain, produced a loud lamentation, 
and brought forth a flood of tears. 

" He had the art of gaining the esteem 
and good-will of those that were labour- 
ers' under him. I think I never saw him 
angry but twice ; the one time it was 
with the foreman of the band, for not 
reaping the field as he was desired ; and 
tiio other time, it was with an old man, 
for using smutty inuendoes and ihmhle 
entendres. Were every foul mouthed old 
man to receive a seasonable check in 
this way, it would be to the advantage 
of the rising generation. As he was at 
no time overbearing to inferiors, he was 
equally incapable of that passive, pitiful, 
paltry spirit, that induces some people to 
keep booing and hooins^ in the presence of 
a great man. He always treated supe- 
riors with a becoming respect : but he 
never gave the smallest encourasrement 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 

to aristocratical arrogance. But I must 
not pretend to give you a description of 
all the manly qualities, the rational and 
Christian virtues, of the venerable Wil- 
liam Burnes. Time would fail me. I 
shall only add, that he carefully practised 
every known duty, and avoided every 
thing that was criminal i or, in the apos- 
tle's words, Herein did ne exercise him- 
self in living n life void of offence towards 
God and towards men. O for a world of 
men of such dispositions ! We should 
then have no wars. I have often wished, 
for the good of mankind, that it were as 
customary to honour and perpetuate the 
memory of those who excel in moral rec- 
titude, as it is to extol what are called 
heroic actions : then would the mausoleum 
of the friend of my youth overtop and sur- 
pass most of the monuments I see in 
Westminster Abbey. 



" Although I cannot do justice to the 
character of this worthy man, yet you 
will perceive from these few particulars, 
what kind of person had the principal 
hand in the education of our poet. He 
spoke the English language with more 
propriety [both with respect to diction 
and pronunciation,) than any man I ever 
knew with no greater advantages. This 
had a very good effect on the boys, who 
began to talk, and reason like men, mucn 
sooner than their neighbours. I do not 
recollect any of their contemporaries, at 
my little seminary, who afterwards made 
any great figure, as literary characters, 
except Dr. Tennant, who was chaplain 
to Colonel Fullarton's regiment, and who 
is now in the East Indies. He is a man 
of genius and learning ; yet affable, and 
free from pedantry. 

" Mr. Burnes, in a short time, found 
that he liad over-rated Mount Oliphant, 
and that he could not rear his numerous 
fiimily upon it. After being there some 
years, he removed to Loch lea, in the 
parish of Tarbolton, where, I believe, Ro- 
bert wrote most of his poems. 

" But here, Sir, you will permit me to 
pause. I can tell you but little more rela- 
tive to our poet. I shall, however, in my 
next, send yon a copy of one of his letters 
to me, about the year 1783. I received 
one since, but it is mislaid. Please re- 
member me, in the best manner, to my 
worthy friend Mr. Adair, when you see 
him, or write to him. 

" Hart-street, Blnomsbury-Square, 
London, Feb. 22, 1799.'" 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



27 



As the narrative of Gilbert TJurns was 
written at a time when lie was ifjnorant 
of tiic existence of the j)rer.(!(ling narra- 
tive of iiiri brotlier, so tliis hjUiir of Mr. 
MnrdoeU was written witlionl. his iiaving 
any iiiiowledfjc tiial either of iiis pnpils 
hail been eni|)h)ye(l on the same snbji!ct. 
The three rfihilions s(;rve, tlierefore, not 
merely to illustrate, hut to antlKuiticate 
each other. Though the information 
they convey might have b(!en ])resente(i 
within asiiorter comj);iss, by reducing the 
whole into om; unhrolvCMi narrative, it is 
scarcely to be douhlcd, that the intelli- 
gent reader will be far more gratihed by 
a sight of these original documents them- 
selves. 

Under the humble roof of his parents, 
it appears indtu-d that our poot had gn;at 
advantiiges ; but his opi)ortuniti(>s of in- 
formation at school were more limited as 
to time; than they usually are among his 
countrymen in his condition of lifi) ; and 
the nc(]uisitions which lie made, and the 
poetical talent which he exerted, under 
the pressure of early and incessant toil, 
and of inferior, and perhajis scanty nutri- 
ment, testify at once the extraonhnary 
force and activity of his mind. In his 
frame of body he rose nearly to five feet 
t(>n inches, and asf'umed the [)roj)()rtioiis 
tliat indicate agility as well as strength. 
In the various labours of tlu; farm he ex- 
celled all his competitors. Gilbert Hums 
declares that in mowing, the (jxercise that 
tries all the muscles most severely, Ro- 
bert was the only man, that at the end of 
a .■iurnmer's day he was ever obliged to 
acknowledge as his master. Rut though 
our poet gave the powers of liis body to 
the labours of the farm, he refused to be- 
stow on tlietn his thoughts or his cares. 
Whilethe plougiishare under his guidance 
passed through the sward, or the grass 
i(;ll luider the svve(!p of his scythe, he was 
humming the songs of his country, nnising 
on the deeds of atici(;ut valour, or wrn.pt 
in the allusions of Fancy, as her enchant- 
ments rose on his view. Happily the 
Sunday is yet a sabbath, on which man 
and beast rest from tlieir lal)ours. On 
this day, therefore, Rurns could indulge 
in a free intercourse with the charms of 
nature. It was his delight to wander 
alone on the banks of the Ayr, whose 
stream is now immortal, aiul to listen to 
the song of the blackbird at the close of 
tlie sinnmer's day. Rut still greater was 
his j.I(N-isur(>, as he himself informs ns, in 
Stalking on the slieltered side of a wood, 
P 2 



in a cloudy winter day, and hearing tho 
storm rave among the trees ; and more 
(ilevatcd still his delight, to asceMid some 
eminiuice during the agitations of miture ; 
to stride along its sununit, while the 
lightning flashcid aroinid him; and amidst 
the bowlings of the tempest, to apostro- 
|)hize the sjjirit oi"the storm. Such situ- 
ations he d(u;lares most iiivourabh! to de- 
votion. — " Rapt in enthusiasm, I seem 
to ascend towards Ifim vj/io ira/ks on Ike 
win^s i>f llu: winds!'' If other proofs were 
wanting of the character ot" his giiuius, 
this might determine it. The heart of 
tho poet is i)eculiarly awake to ev(;ry im- 
j)rcssion oi" beauty and sublimity ; but, 
with tho higher order of poets, the beau- 
tiful is less attractive than the sublime. 

Thegayety ofmany of Rurns's writings, 
and th(! livcdy, and even cluierful colour- 
ing with which In; Inis jiortrayed his own 
character, may lead sonu; persons to sup- 
pose, that the melancholy which hung 
over him towards the end of his days waa 
not an original part of his constitution. 
[t is not to be doubted, indeed, that this 
melancholy acquired a dark(!r hu(! in the 
j)rogress of his lifi; ; but, independent of 
his own and of his brother's tc^stimony, 
evidence is to bf! foiuid among his papers, 
that he was subjec-t very early to those 
depressions of mind, which are perhaps 
not wholly se|)arate from tiie sensibility 
of genius, but which in him rose to an 
uncommon degre(!. The following letter,, 
addressed to his father, will serve as a 
proof of this observation. It was written 
at the time when he was learning the 
business of a flax-dresser, and is dated, 

Irvine, Derrrnhnr 27, 1 7fM . 
" IIoNOTjRKu SrR — I have purposcdy 
delayed writing, in the hope that I should 
havt! tlu! pleasure of seeing you on N(!W- 
year's-day ; but work conn-s so hiird upon 
us, tlnit I do not choose to be a,i»sent on 
that account, as W(!ll as for some other 
little reasons, whicJi I shall tidl you at 
meeting. My liealth is nearly tin; same 
as when you wen; lu^re, only my sleep is 
a little sound(!r; and, on the whoh;, I am 
rather better than otherwise, though I 
mend by very slow degrees. Tho weak 
ness of my nerves has so debilitated my 
mind, that I dare neither revi(!W past 
wants, nor look forward into futurity \ 
for the least anxiety or perturbation in 
my breast, prf)ducesmost unhappy efl'ecta 
on my whole frame. Sometimi's, in- 
deed, when for an hour or two my spirits 



ts 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



are a little lightened, \ glimmer into futu- 
rity ; but my principal, and indeed my 
only pleasurable employment, is lookintr 
backwards and forwards in a moral and 
relisrious way. I am tranpsorted at the 
thought, that ere long, very soon, I shall 
bid an eternal adieu to all the pains and 
uneasiness, and disquietudes of this weary 
life; for I assure you 1 a.m heartily tired of 
it ; and, if I do not very much deceive my- 
self,! could contentedly and gladly resignit, 

' The soul, uneasy, and confin'd at home, 
Rcsls and expatiates in a life to come.' 

" It is for this reason I am more pleased 
with the 15th, 16th, and 17th verses of the 
7th cliapter of Revelations, than with any 
ten tinuis as many verses in the whole 
Bible, and would not exchange the noble 
enthusiasm with which they inspire me, 
for all that tjiis world has to ofter.-* As 
for this world, I despair of ever making 
a figure in it. I am not formed for the 
bustle of the busy, nor the flutter of tlie^ 
gay. I sliall never again be capable of 
entering into such scenes. Indeed I am 
altogether unconcerned at the thoughts 
of this life. I foresee that poverty and 
obscurity probably await me. I am in 
some measure prepared, and daily pre- 
paring to meet them. I have but just time 
and paper to return you my grateful 
thanks for the lessons of virtue and piety 
you have given me, which were too much 
neglected at the time of giving them, but 
which, I hope, have been remembered 
ere it is yet too late. Present my dutiful 
respects to my mother, and my compli- 
ments to Mr. and Mrs. Muir ; and with 
wishing you a merry New-year's-day, I 
shall conclude. I am, honoured Sir, 
Your dutiful son, 

" Robert Burns." 

*' P. S. My meal is nearly out ; but I 
am going to borrow, till I get more." 

This letter, written several years before 
the publication of Ins poems, when his 
name wa? as obscure as his condition was 

* The verses of Scripture here olluded to, are as fol- 
lows : 

15. Tkcrrfore arc Ihey hrfiire the throve of Ood, 
and serpc him day and nis.'hl hi his temple; and he that 
tittetk uii the throne shall dwell among them. 

10. Thry shall hnnger no inure, neither thirst any 
more ^ ueiUier shall the sun light on them, nor any 
heat. 

17. For the Lamb, which is in the midst of the 
throne, shall feed them, and shall lead them unto living 
fountains of waters; and God shall wipe away all 
Uart from Ihcir eyes. 



humble, displays the philosophic melan- 
choly which so generally forms the po- 
etical temperament, and that buoyant and 
ambitious spirit which indicates a mind 
conscious of its strength. At Irvine, 
Burns at this time possessed a single room 
for his lodging, rented perhaps at the rate 
of a shilling a week. He passed his days 
in constant labour as a tlax-drcsser, and 
his food consisted chiefly of oatmeal, sent 
to him from his father's family. The 
store of this humble, though wholesome 
nutriment, it appears was nearly exhaust- 
ed, and he was about to borrow till he 
should obtain a supply. Yet even in this 
situation, his active imagination had form- 
ed to itself pictures of eminence and dis- 
tinction. His despair of making a figure 
in the world, shows how artlently he 
wished for honourable fame ; and his con- 
tempt of life founded on this despair, is 
the genuine expression of a youthful and 
generous mind. In such a state of re- 
flection, and of sufl^ering, the imagination 
of Burns, naturally passed the dark boun- 
daries of our earthly horizon, and rested 
on those beautiful representations of a 
better world, where there is neither thirst 
nor hunger, nor sorrow; and where hap- 
piness shall be in proportion to the capa- 
city of happiness. 

Such a disposition is far from being at 
variance with social enjoyments. Those 
who have studied the affinities of mind 
know that a melancholy of tiiis descrip- 
tion, after a while, seeks relief in the 
endearments of society, and that it has no 
distant connexion with the flow of cheer- 
fulness, or even the extravagance of mirth. 
It was a few days after the writing of 
this letter that our poet, " in giving a 
welcome carousal to the new year, with 
his gay companions," suffered liis flax to 
catch fire, and his shop to be consumed 
to ashes. 

The energy of Bnrns's mind was not ex- 
hausted by his daily labours, the effusion 
of his muse, his social pleasures, or his 
solitary meditationsi Some time previ- 
ous to his engiigement as a flax-dresser, 
having lieard tiiat a debating-club hjid 
been established in Ayr, he resolved to 
try how such a meeting would succeed in 
the village of Tarbolton. About the end 
of tlie year 17!)0, our poet, his brother, 
and five other young peasants of the 
neighbourhood, formed themselves into a 
society of tiiis sort, the declared objects 
of wliich were to relax themselves aftei 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



29 



toil, to promote sociality and friendsliip, 
and to improve the mind. Tlie laws and 
regulations were furnished by Burns. 
The members were to meet after the 
labours of the day were over, once a 
week, in a small public-house in the vil- 
lage ; where each should offer his opinion 
on a given question or subject, supporting 
it by such arguments as he thought pro- 
per. The debate was to be conducted 
with order and decorum ; and after it 
was finished, the members were to choose 
a subject for discussion at the ensuing 
meeting. The sum expended by each 
was not to exceed threepence ; and, with 
the humble potation that this could pro- 
cure, they were to toast their mistresses, 
and to cultivate friendship with each 
other. This society continued its meet- 
ings regularly for some time ; and in the 
autumn of 1782, wishing to preserve some 
account of their proceedings, they pur- 
chased a book into which their laws and 
regulations were copied, with a pream- 
ble, containing a short history of their 
transactions down to that period. This 
curious document, which is evidently the 
work of our poet, has been discovered, 
and it deserves a place in his memoirs. 

" History of the Rise, Proceedings, and Regulations 
of the Bachelor^s Club. 

*' Of birth or blood we do not boast, 
Nor gentry does our club afford ; 

But ploughmen and mechanics we 
In Nature's simple dress record." 

" As the great end of human society is 
to become wiser and better, this ought 
therefore to be the principal view of every 
man in every station of life. But as ex- 
perience has taught us, that such studies 
as inform the head and mend the heart, 
wlien long continued, are apt to exhaust 
the faculties of the mind, it has been 
found proper to relieve and unbend the 
mind by some employment or another, 
that may be agreeable enough to keep its 
powers in exercise, but at the same time 
not so serious as to exhaust them. But, 
euperadded to this, by far the greater 
part of mankind are under the necessity 
of earninir the sustenance of hvninn life by 
the laJwurs of their bodies^ whereby, not 
only the faculties of the mind, but the 
nerves and sinews of the body, are so 
fatigued, that it is absolutely necessary to 
have recourse to some amusement or di- 
version, to relieve the wearied man, worn 
down with the necessary labours of life. 



" As the best of things, however, have 
been perverted to tlie worst of purposes, 
so, under the pretence of amusement and 
diversion, men have plunged into all the 
madness of riot and dissipation ; and, in- 
stead of attending to the grand design of 
human lite, they have begun with ex- 
travagance and folly, and ended with 
guilt and wretchedness. Impressed with 
these considerations, we, the following 
lads in the parish of Tarbolton,i)jz. Hugh 
Reid, Robert Burns, Gilbert Burns, Alex- 
ander Brown, Walter Mitchell, Thomas 
Wright, and William M' Gavin, resolved, 
for our mutual entertainment, to unite 
ourselves into a club, or society, under 
such rules and regulations, that while we 
should forget our cares and labours in 
mirth and diversion, we might not trans- 
gress the bounds of iiinocence and deco- 
rum ; and after agreeing on these, and 
some other regulations, we held our first 
meeting at Tarbolton, in the house of 
John Richard, upon the evening of the 
1 1 th of November, 1 780, commonly called 
Hallowe'en, and after choosing Robert 
Burns president for the night, we proceed- 
ed to debate on this question — Suppose a 
young man, bred a farmer, but without any 
fortune, has it in his power to marry either 
of two women, the one a girl of large fortune, 
but neither handsome in person, nor agree- 
able in conversation, but who can manage 
the household affairs ofafarmwcll enough; 
the other of them a girl every way agreeable 
in person, conversation, and behaviour, but 
without any fortune : which of them shall he 
choose ? Finding ourselves very happy in 
our society,we resolved to continue to meet 
once a month in the same house, in the 
way and manner proposed, and shortly 
thereafter we chose Robert Ritchie for 
another member. In May 1781, we 
brought in David Sillar,* and in June, 
Adam Jamaison, as members. About the 
beginning of the year 1782, we admitted 
Matthew Patterson, and John Orr, and in 
June following we chose James Patterson 
as a proper brother for such a society. 
The club being thus increased, we re- 
solved to meet at Tarbolton on the race 
night, the July following, and have a 
dance in honour of our society. Accord- 
ingly we did meet, each one with a part 
ner, and spent the evening in such inno- 
cence and merriment, such cheerfulness 
and good humour, that every brother will 



* The person to whom Burns addressed his KpistU 
to Davie, a brother voeU 



30 



THE LIFE OF BURNS: 



long remember it with pleasure, and de- 
liglit." To this preamble are subjoined 
the rules and regulations.* 

The philosophical mind will dwell with 
interest and pleasure, on an institution 
that combined so skilfully the means of 
instruction and of happiness, and if gran- 
deur look down with a smile on these 
simple annals, let us trust that it will be a 
smile of benevolence and approbation. It 
is with regret that the sequel of the his- 
tory of the Bachelor's Club of Tarbolton 
must be told. It survived several years 
after our poet removed from Ayrshire, 
but no longer sustained by his talents, or 
cemented by his social affections, its meet- 
ings lost nmch of their attraction ; and at 
length, in an evil hour, dissention arismg 
amongst its members, the institution was 
given up, and the records committed to 
the flames. Happily the preamble and 
the regulations were spared ; and as mat- 
ter of instruction and of example, they 
are transmitted to posterity. 

After the family of our bard removed 
from Tarbolton to the neighbourhood of 
Mauchline, he and his brother were re- 
quested to assist in forming a similar in- 
stitution there. The regulations of the 
club at Mauciiline were nearly the same 
as those of the club at Tarbolton: but one 
laudable alteration was made. The fines 
for non-attendance had at Tarbolton been 
spent in enlarging their scanty potations ; 
at Mauchline it was fixed, that the money 
so arising, should be set apart for the pur- 
chase of books, and the first work pro- 
cured in this manner was the Jlirro); the 
separate munbers of which were at tiiat 
time recently collected and published in 
volumes. After it, followed a number of 
other works, chiefly of the same nature 
and among these the iMitnger. The so- 
ciety of Maucldiue still subsists, and ap- 
peared in the list of subscribers to the 
first edition of the works of its celebrated 
associate. 

The members of these two societies 
were originally all young men from the 
country, and chiefly sons of farmers ; a 
description of persons, in the opinion of 
our poot, more agreeable in their man- 
ners, more virtuous in their conduct, and 
more* susceptible of improvement, than 
the self-sulhcient mechanics of country- 
towns. With deference to the conver- 

• For which sec Appendix., JVo. II. Xote C 



sation society of Mauchline, it may be 
doubted, whether the books which they 
purchased were of a kind best adapted to 
promote the interest and happiness of 
persons in this situation of life. The 
JSlirror and the Lounger, though works 
of great merit, may be said, on a general 
view of their contents, to be less calcu- 
lated to increase the knowledge, than to 
refine the taste of those who read them; 
and to this last object, their morality it- 
self, which is however always perfectly 
pare, may be considered as subordinate. 
As works of taste, tliey deserve great 
praise. They are, indeed, refined to a 
high degree of delicacy ; and to this cir- 
cumstance it is perhaps owing, that they 
exhibit little or nothing of the peculiar 
manners of the age or country in which 
they were produced. But delicacy of 
taste, though the source of many plea- 
sures, is not without some disadvantages ; 
and to render it desirable, the possessor 
should perhaps in all cases be raised above 
the necessity of bodily labour, unless in- 
deed we should include under tliis term 
the exercise of the imitative arts, over 
which taste immediately presides. Deli- 
cacy of taste may be a blessing to him 
who has the disposal of his own time, and 
who can clioose what book he shall read, 
of what diversion he shall partake, and 
what company he shall keep. To men 
so situated, the cultivation of taste aflbrda 
a grateful occupation in itself, and opens 
a path to many other gratifications. To 
men of genius, in the possession of opu- 
lence and leisure, the cultivation of tlie 
taste may be said to be essentia! ; since 
it affords emploj'ment to those faculties, 
which without employment would destroy 
the happiness of the possessor, and cor- 
rects that morbid sensibility, or, to use 
the expressions of Mr. Hume, that deli- 
cacy of passion, which is the bane of the 
temperament of genius. Happy had it 
been for our bard, after he emerged from 
the condition of a peasant, had the deli- 
cacy of his taste equalled the sensibility 
of his passions, regulating all the efl^usions 
of his muse, and presiding over all his so- 
cial enjoyments. But to the thousands 
who share the original condition of Burns, 
and who are doomed to pass their lives in 
the station in which they were born, de- 
licacy of taste, were it even of easy attain- 
ment, would, if not a positive evil, be at 
least a doubtful blessing. Delicacy of 
taste may make many necessary labours 
irksome or disgusting; and should it ren- 
der the cultivator of the soil unhappy iu 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



31 



hissituntion,it presents no moans by wliich 
that, situation may bo improved. Taste 
and literature, which ditluse so many 
charms throujrhout society, wliich some- 
times secure to their votaries distinction 
while livinjr, and which still more fre- 
quently obtain tor them posthumous tame, 
seldom procure opulence, or even inde- 
pendence, when cultivated with the ut- 
most attention ; and can scarcely bo pur- 
sued with advantage by the peasant in the 
short intervals of leisure which his occu- 
pations allow. Those who raise them- 
selves from the condition of daily labour, 
are usually men who excc^l in the practice 
of some useful art, or who join habits of 
industry and sobriety to an accpiaintance 
with some of the more common branches 
of knowledge. The penmanship of Eut- 
terworth, and the arithmetic of Cocker, 
may be studied by men in the humblest 
walks of life ; and they will assist the 
peasant more in the pursuit of indepen- 
dence, than the study of Homer or of 
Shakspeare,thougli he could comprehend, 
and even imitate the beauties of those im- 
mortal bards. 

These observations are not offered with- 
out some portion of doubt and hesitation. 
The subject has many relations, and would 
iustify an am])lc discussion. Tt maybeob- 
eerved, on the other hand, that the first 
step to improvement is to awaken the de- 
sire of improvement, and that this will be 
most cflfectually done by such reading as 
interests the heart and excites the imagi- 
nation. The greater part of the sacred 
writings themselves, which in Scotland 
are more especially the mantial of the 
poor, come under this description. It 
may be farther observed, that every hu- 
man being, is the proj)er judge of his own 
liapj)incss, and within the path of inno- 
cence, ought to be permitted to pursue it. 
Since it is the taste of tlie Scottish pea- 
santry to give a preference to. works of 
taste and of fancy,* it may be presumed 
tliey find a superior gratification in the 
perusal of such works ; and it may be 
added, that it is of more consequence they 
sliould be made happy in their original 
condition, than furnished with the means, 
or with the desire of rising above it Such 
considerations are doubtless of much 
weight ; nevertheless, the previous reflec- 

* In several lists orbfiok sorielies among the jioorrr 
classes ill Pcollaiid whicli the eilitor li;is seen, works of 
tliis (les(ri|>ljon form a great pari, Tliene societies are 
by no nie;inn general, and it is not supposed that they 
are l.icreusing at present 



tions may deserve to be examined, and 
here we shall leave the subject. 

Though the records of the society at 
Tarbolton are lost, and tliose of the soci- 
ety at Mauchline have not been transmit- 
ted, yet we may safely affirm, that our 
poet was a distinguislied member of both 
these associations, which were well cal- 
culated to excite and to develop the pow- 
ers of his mind. From seven to twelve 
persons constituted the society of Tarbol- 
toTi, and such a number is best suited to 
the purposes of information. Where thia 
is the oltjfict of these societies, the num- 
ber should be such, that each person may 
have an opportunity of imparting his sen- 
timents, as well as of receiving those of 
others ; and the powers of private con- 
versation are to be employed, not those of 
public debate. A limited society of thia 
kind, where the subject of conversation is 
fixed beforehand, so that each member 
may revolve it previously in his mind, is 
perhaps one of the happiest contrivances 
hitherto discovered for shortening the ac- 
quisition of knowledge, and hastening the 
evolution of talents. Such an association 
requires indeed somewhat more of regu- 
lation than the rules of politeness estab- 
lish in common conversation ; or rather, 
perhaps, it requires that the rules of po- 
liteness, which in animated conversation 
are liable to perpetual violation, should 
be vigorously enforced. The order of 
speech established in the club at Tarbol- 
ton, appears to have been more regular 
than was required in so small a society;* 
where all that is necessary seems to be 
the fixing on a member to whom every 
speaker shall address himself, and who 
shall in return secure the speaker from in- 
terruption. Conversation, which among 
men whom intimacy and friendship have 
relieved from reserve and restraint, is li- 
able, when left to itself, to so many in- 
equalities, and which, as it becomes ra- 
pid, so often diverges into separate and 
collateral branches, in which it is dissi- 
pated and lost, being kept within its chan- 
nel by a simple limitation of this kind, 
which practice renders easy and familiar, 
flows along in one full stream, and be- 
comes smoother, and clearer, and deeper, 
as it Hows. It may also be observed, that 
in this way the acquisition of knowledge 
becomes more pleasant and more e'asy, 
from the gradual improvement of the fa- 
culty employed to convey i„. Though 

• Sec Appendix, No- II. Note C. 



s« 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



some attention has been paid to the elo- 
quence of the senate and the bar, which 
in tliis, as in all other free governments, 
is productive of so much influence to the 
few who excel in it, yet little regard has 
been paid to the humbler exercise of 
speech in private conversation ; an art 
that is of consequence to every descrip- 
tion of persons under every form of go- 
vernmcut, and on which eloquence of eve- 
ry kind ougiit perhaps to be founded. 

The first requisite of every kind of elo- 
cution, a distinct utterance, is the off- 
spring of much time and of long prac- 
tice. Children are always defective 
in clear articulation, and so are young 
people, though in a less degree. What 
IS called slurring in speech, prevails with 
some persons tlirough life, especially in 
those who are taciturn. Articulation 
does not seem to reach its utmost degree 
of distinctness in men before the age of 
twenty, or upwards ; in women it reaches 
this point somewhat earlier. Female oc- 
cupations require much use of speech be- 
cause they are duties in detail. Besides, 
their occui)ations being generally seden- 
tary, the respiration is left at liberty. 
Their nerves being more delicate, their 
sensibility as well as fancy is more live- 
ly ; the natural consequence of which is, 
a more frequent utterance of thought, a 
greater fluency of speech, and a distinct 
articulation at an earlier age. But in men 
who have not mingled early and familiar- 
ly with the world, though rich perhaps in 
knowledge, and clear in apprehension, it 
is often painful to observe the difliculty 
with which their ideas are communicated 
by spoecii, through the want of those ha- 
bits that connect thoughts, words, and 
sounds together ; wJiicii, when establish- 
ed, seem as if tiiey had arisen spontane- 
ously, but which, in truth, are the result 
of long and painful practice ; and when 
analyzed, exhibit the phenomena of most 
curious and complicated association. 

Societies then, such as we have been 
desrrii)ing, while they may be said to put 
each member in possession of the know- 
ledge of all the rest, improve the powers 
of utterance; and by tlie collision of opi- 
nion, excite the faculties of reason and 
retli'ction. To those who wish to improve 
their minds in such intervals of labour as 
the condition of a peasant allows, this 
method of abbreviati'ig instruction, may, 
under proper regulations, be higlilv use- 
ful. To the student, whose opinions, 



springing out of solitary observation and 
meditation, are seldom in the first in- 
stance correct, and which have, notwith- 
standing, while confined to himself, an 
increasing tendency to assume in his own 
eye the character of demonstrations, an 
association of this kind, where they may 
be examined as they arise, is of the ut- 
most importance ; since it may prevent 
those illusions of imagination, by which 
genius being bewildered, science is often 
debased, and error propagated through 
successive generations. And to men who 
have cultivated letters, or general science 
in the course of their education, but who 
are engaged in the active occupations of 
life, and no longer able to devote to study 
or to books the time requisite for improv- 
ing or preserving their acquisitions, asso- 
ciations of this kind, where the mind may 
unbend from its usual cares in discussions 
of literature or science, afford the most 
pleasing, the most useful, and the most 
rational of gratifications.* 

Whether in the humble societies of 
which he was a member. Burns acquired 
much direct information, may perhaps be 
questioned. It cannot liowever be doubt- 
ed, that by collision, the faculties of his 
mind would be excited; that by practice 
his habits of enunciation would be es- 
tablished ; and thus we have some expla- 
nation of that early command of words 
and of expression which enabled him to 
pour forth his thoughts in language not 
unworthy of his genius, and which, of all 
his endowments, seemed, on his appear- 
ance in Edinburgh, the most extraordi- 
nary. f For associations of a literary na- 

* When letters and philosophy were cultivated in 
ancient Greece, the press had not multiplied the tablets 
of learning and science, and necessity produced the 
habit of studying as it were in common. Poets were 
found reciting their own verses in public assemblies ; 
in public schools only pliilosojihers delivered their spe- 
ciiliitions The tnst(^ of the hearers, tlie ingenuity of 
the scholars, were employed ii> appr(?ciating and exa- 
mining the works of fancy and of speculation submit- 
ted to their consideration, and the irrevocable words 
were not given to the world before the composition, as 
Well as the sentiments, were again and again retouclied 
and improved. Death alone put the last seal on the 
labours of genius. Hence, perhaps, may be in part ex- 
plained the cxlraordiiiiry art ami skill with which the 
monuments of Grecian literature that remains to us, 
appear to have been constructed. 

t It appears that our Poet made more preparation 
than might be supposed, for the discussion of the socie- 
ty of Tarbolton. There were found souip detached 
ineniorauda, evidently prepared for these meetings i 
and, amongst others, tlie heado of a s-peech on the quos- 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



SS 



Inre, our poet acquired a considerable re- 
lish ; and happy had it been for hiin, af- 
ter he cinerfTod from the condition of a 
peasant, if fortune had permitted iiim to 
enjoy them in the degree of wiiich he was 
capable, so as to have fortified his princi- 
ples of virtue by the purification of his 
taste ; and given to the energies of his 
mind habits of exertion that might have 
excluded other associations, in which it 
must be acknowledged they were too of- 
ten wasted, as well as debased. 

The whole course of the Ayr is fine ; 
but the banks of that river, as it bends to 
the eastward above Mauclilino, are sin- 
gularly beautiful, and they were frequent- 
ed, as may be imagined, by our poet in 
his solitary walks. Here the muse often 
visited him. In one of these wanderings, 
he met among the woods a celebrated 
beauty of the west of Scotland : a lady, 
of whom it is said, that the charms of her 
person correspond with the character of 
Jier mind. This incident gave rise, as 
might be expected, to a poem, of which 
an account will be foimd in the following 
letter, in which he inclosed it to the ob- 
ject of his inspiration : 

To Miss 



Mossgiel, \^th Jfovcmher, 1786. 

" Madam, — Poets are such outre be- 
ings, so miu;h the children of wayward 
fancy and capricious whim, that I believe 
the world generally allows them a larger 
latitude in the laws of propriety, than the 
sober sons of jiulgmcnt and prudence. I 
mention this as an apology for the liber- 
ties that a nameless stranger has taken 
with you in the inclosed poem, wliich he 
begs leave to present you with. Whe- 
ther it h;is poetical merit any way worthy 
of the theme, I am not the proper judge; 
but it is the best my abilities can produce ; 
and, what to a good heart will perhaps 

tion mentionefl in p-29, in which, as might beexnocted, 
\w taltcs the imprudent side of Iho question. Tlie fol 
linviiig may serve as a fartlier specimen of the ques 
I'oiis debated in the society at Taibolton : — JV/utlicr Jo 
ve ilerir.c more knppinrss from, love or friendship 7 
H liclhiT bttiar.cn frirnds, who have no reason to dovlil 
enck other's friendship, there should he any reserve ? 
/( helhr.r is the savaffe man, or the peasant of a civilized 
contitiy, in the most happy situation? — IVhrlher is a 
yoimsr man of the lower ranks of life lihctiesl to he hap- 
py ichii han n-ot a good cdur,at.ion, and his wind will in- 
farmel, or he who has just the education and informa- 
tion of those around him ? 



be a superior grace, it is equally^ sincere 
as fervent. 

" The scenery was nearly taken from 
real life, though I dare say, Madam, you do 
not recollect it, as I believe you scarcely 
noticed the poetic reveur as he wandered 
by you. I had roved out as chance di- 
rected, in the favourite haunts of my 
muse on the bunks of the Ayr, to view 
nature in all the gayety of the vernal 
year. The evening sun was flaming over 
the distant western lillls ; not a breath 
stirred the crimson opc^ning blossom, or 
the verdant spreading leaf. — It was a 
golden moment for a poetic heart. I 
listened to the feathered warblers, pour- 
ing their harmony on every hand, with a 
congenial kindred regard, and frequently 
turned out of my path, lest I should dis- 
turb their little songs, or frighten them 
to another station. Surely, said I to my- 
self, he must be a wretcii indeed, who, 
regardless of your harmonious endea- 
vours to jdease him, can eye your elusive 
flights to discover your secret recesses, 
and to rob you of ail the property nature 
gives you, your dearest comforts, your 
li(;ll)less nestlings. Even the hoary haw- 
thorn twig that shot across the way, 
what heart at such a time but must 
have been interested in its welfare 
and wished it preserved from the rudely 
browsing cattle, or the withering eastern 
blast? Such was the scene — and such 
the hour, when, in a corner of my pros- 
pect, I spied one of the fairest pieces of 
Nature's workmanship that ever crowned 
a poetic landscape, or met a poet's eye : 
those visionary bards excepted who hold 
commerce wirh aerial beings! Had Ca- 
lumny and Villany taken my walk, they 
had at that tnoment sworn eternal peace 
with such an object. 

" What an hour of inspiration for a 
poet ! It would have raised plain, dull, 
historic prose into metaphor and mea- 
sure. 

"The enclosed song* was tlie work ofmy 
return home; and perhnps it be.t poorly 
answers what might have been expected 
from such a scene. 



" I have the honour to be, Madam, 
Your most obedient, 

and very humble servant, 
" Roni:RT BuKiNS." 

* The song entitled the TiassorSallochmyle 



34 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



In the manuscript book in which our 
poet has recounted tliis incident, and into 
wliicli tlie letter and poem are copied, lie 
complains that the lady made no reply to 
his effusions, and this appears to have 
wounded his self-love. It is not, how- 
ever, difficult to find an excuse for her 
eilence. Burns was at that time little 
known ; and where known at all, noted 
rather for the wild strength of his humour, 
than for those strains of tenderness in 
which he afterwards so mucii excelled. 
To the lady herseft" his name had perhaps 
never heen mentioned, and of such a poem 
she might not consider herself as the proper 
judge. Her modesty might prevent her 
from perceiving that tiie muse of Tibul- 
lus breathed in this nameless poet, and that 
her beauty was awakening strains des- 
tined to immortality, on the bank of the 
Ayr. It may be conceived, also, that sup- 
posing the verse duly appreciated, delica- 
cy might find it difficult to express its ac- 
knowledgments. The fervent imagina- 
tion of the rustic bard possessed more of 
tenderness than of respect. Instead of 
raising himself to the condition of the ob- 
ject of liis admiration, he presumed to re- 
duce her to his own, and to strain this 
higii-born beauty to his daring bosom. 
It is true. Burns' might have found pre- 
cedents for such freedom among the poets 
of Greece and Rome, and indeed of every 
country. And it is not to be denied, that 
lovely women have generally submitted 
to this sort of profanation with patience, 
and even with good humour. To what 
purpose is it to repine at a misfortune 
which is the necessary consequence of 
their own charms, or to remonstrate with 
« description of men who are incapable of 
control ? 

" The lunntic, tlifi lovor, nnd Itic poet, 
Are otiiiiayiualiDn all loinpiicl." 

It may bo easily presumed, that the 
beautiful nymph of Baliochmyle, whoever 
she may iiave b(H'n, did not reject with 
ecorn the adorations of our poet, though 
she received theui with silent modesty 
and dignified reserve.. 

The sensibility of onr bard's temper, 
and tlie force of liis imagination, exposed 
him in a particular mnnner to tlie iinpres- 
simis of b'^auty ; and thes(^ qualities, unit- 
ed to his impassioned eloquence, gave in 
turn a powerful iutluence over the female 
iieart. Tlie Bnuks of the Ayr formed the 
icoiw ofyoulht'iil passions of a tstill ten- 



derer nature, the history of which It 
would be improper to reveal, were it even 
ill our power ; and the traces of which 
will soon be discoverable only in those 
strains of nature and sensibility to which 
they gave birth. The song entitled 
Highland J)lari/, is known to relate to 
one of these attachments. " It was writ- 
ten," says our bard, " on one of the most 
interesting passages of my youthful days." 
The object of this passion died early in 
life, and the impression left on the mind 
of Burns seems to have been deep and 
lasting. Several years afterwards, when 
he was removed to Nithsdale, he gave 
vent to the sensibility of his recollections: 
in that impassioned poem, which is ad- 
dressed To J\Iary, in Heaven ! 

To the delineations of the poet by him- 
self, by his brother, and by his tutor, these 
additions are necessary, in order that the 
reader may see his character in its vari- 
ous aspects, and may have an opportunity 
of forming a just notion of the variety, as 
well as of the power of his original ge- 
nius.* 

* The history of the poems formerly printed, will be 
found in the Appendix to this volnnic. It is insnted 
in the words of Gilbert Burns, who, in a letter nddrras- 
od to the Editor, has given the following account ot 
the friends which Kobert's talents procured him before 
he left Ayrshire, or attracted the notice of the world. 

" The farm of Mossgiel, at the time of our coming to 
it, (Martinmas, 178:t,) was the property of the Karl of 
lioudon, but was lield in tack liy Mr. Gavin Hamilton, 
writer in Mauchline, from whom we had our barjiain; 
who had thus an ojiportunily of knownip, niul sliowin^ 
a sincere regard for my brotlter, before he knew that 
he was a poet. The poet's estimation of him, and the 
strong outlines of his character, may he collected from 
the dedication to this gentleman. When the publi- 
cation was begun, Mr. H. entered very warmly into its 
interests, and promoted the subscription very exten- 
sively. Mr. Robert Aiken, writer in Ayr, is a man of 
worth and taste, of warm alfections, and comiected 
with a most respectable circle of friends and relations. 
It is to this gentleman The Cutter's Saturday .N'iglit is 
inscribed. The poems of my brother which I have for- 
merly mentioned, no sooner came into his hands, than 
tln^y were quickly known, nnd well received in tlie ex- 
lonsive circle of Mr. AiUiin's friends, which gave them 
a sort of currency, necessary in this wise world, even 
for the good reciplion of Ihiiiss valuable in themselves. 
But Mr. Aiken not oidy adudred the poet ; as sixui as 
he became acquainted with liim, he showed the warm- 
est regard for the man, nnd did every thing in his pow- 
er to forward his interest and respectability. '/'he 
F./ii-ftle to a Yoiiiiir Frimd wa.s addrrssrd to this gtii 
tlenian's son, Mr. A. II .Mken, now of Liverpool. Hrt 
vv.in the oldest of a young lamily, who were taiighl to 
receive my tiiotlier with respect, as u man of gi-'nKi.'^ 
and their father'^ friend. 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



S5 



We have dwelt the longer on the early 
part of liis lif'e.because it iy the least known ; 
and because, as Jias already been mcn- 
liound, this part of liis liistory is connect- 
ed witli some views of the condition and 
manners of tlie huiablcst ranks of society, 
hi'.lierto little observed, and which will 
perhaps be found neither useless nor un- 
interesting. 

About the time of his leaving his native 
county, his correspondence commences ; 
and in the series of letters now given to 
tlie world, the chief incidents of the re- 
mainnig part of his life will be found. 
This authentic, though melancholy record, 
will supersede in future the necessity of 
any extended narrative. 

" Tlie Brigs of Ayr is inscribed to John Ballentine 
Esq. banker in Ayr; one of those Kenllenien to whom 
my brother was introduced by Mr. Aiken. He intei- 
eslcd liiinself very warmly in my brother's concerns, 
and constantly showed the greatest friendship and at- 
tachment to liim. When tlie Kilmarnock edition was 
all sold oir, and a considerable demand pointed out the 
propriety of publishing a second edition, Mr. Wilson, 
who had jirinted tlie lirst, was asked if he would jirinl 
the second, and take his chance of being paid from the 
first sale. Tliis he declined, and when this came to 
Mr. Ballentine's knowledge, he generously offered to 
accommodate Robert with what money he might need 
for that purpose; but advised iiiin to go to Edinburgh, 
as ihe fittest place for publishing. When he did go to 
Edinburgh, his friends advised him to publish again 
by subscription, so that he did not need to accept this 
offer. Mr. William Parker, merchant in Kilmarnock 
was a subscriber for thirty five copies of the Kilmarnock 
edition. This may perhaps appear not deserving of 
notice here; but if the comparative ol)scurity of the 
poet, at this period, be taken into consideraUon, it ai>- 
pears to rue a greater effort of generosity, than many 
things which appear more brilliant in my brotlier's fu- 
ture history. 

" Mr. Robert Muir, merchant in Kilmarnock, was 
one of those friends Robert's poetry had procured him, 
and one who was dear to his heart. This gentleman 
had no very great fortune, or long line of dignified an- 
cestry ; but what Robert gays, of Captain Matthew 
Hcnder»on, fiiight be said of him with great propriety, 
that he held the. palent of his honours immrjliatcly from 
JUmighty God. Nature had indeed marked him a gentle- 
man In the most legible characters Me died while 
yet B young man, soon after the pnblicalion of my bro- 
ther's first Edinburgh (.'dilion. Sir William Cunning- 
ham of Rolitrtlarid, paid a very flattering attention, 
and showed a good deal of friendship for the poet. 
Hefore his go>g to Kdiiiburgb, as well as after, Robert 
eeeined pecj'iarly pleased with Professor Stewart's 
friendship and convcisation. 

" But of all the fr'endahips which Robert acquired in 
Ayrshire and 2'» ;-vhere, none seemed more iigreeahle 
10 him tlian tlfi* 'f Mrs Oiinlop, of Dunlop ; nor any 
svhich liaabee/) /•lOreuniformlvand constantly exerted in 

Q 



Burns set out for Edinburgh in the 
month of November, 1786. He was fur- 
nished with a letter of introduction to 
Dr. Blacklock, from the gentleman to 
whom the Doctor had addressed the let- 
ter which is represented by our bard as 
the immediate catisc of his visiting the 
Scottish metropolis. He was acquainted 
with Mr. Stewart, Professor of Moral 
Philosophy in the university ; and had 
been entertained by that gentleman at 
Catrine, his estate in Ayrshire. He had 
been introduced by Mr. Alexander Dalzel 
to the earl of Glencairn, who had ex- 
pressed his high approbation of his poeti- 
cal talents. He had friends therefore 
who could introduce him into the circles 
of literature as well as of fashion, and his 

behalf of him and his family, of which, were it proper, 
I could give many instances. Robert was on the point 
of setting out for Edinburgh before Mrs. Dunlop had 
heard of liim. About the time of my brother's pub- 
lishing in Kilmarnock, she had been afHicted with a 
long and severe illness, which bad reduced her miiiii 
to the most distressing state of depression. In this situ- 
ation, a copy of the printed ix)ems was laid on her 
table i)y a friend ; and liappening to open on The Cot- 
ter's Saturday Might, she read it over with the great- 
est pleasure and surprise ; the poet's description of tlie 
simple cottagers, operating on her mind like the charm 
of a powerful exorcist, expelling liie demon cmiuy and 
restoring her to her wonted inward liarmony and satis- 
faction. Mrs. Dunlopsent off a person express to Moss- 
giel, distant fifteen or sixteen miles, with a very oblig- 
ing letter to my brother, desiring him to send lier half a 
dozen copies of his poems, if lie had them to spare, and 
begging lie would do her the pleasure of calling at 
Dunlop House as soon as convenient. This wa« the 
beginning of a correspondence which ended only with 
the poet's life. The last use he made of his pen was 
writing a short letter to this lady a few days before hia 
death. 

" Colonel Fullarton, who afterwards paid a very par^ 
ticular attention to the poet, was not in the country at 
the time of liis first commencing author. At this dis- 
tance of time, and in the hurry of a wet day, snatch- 
ed from laborious occupations, I may liave forgot 
some persons who ought to have been mentioned on 
this occasion ; for which, if it come to my knowledge, 
I shall be heartily sorry." 

The friendship of Mrs. Dunlop was of particular 
value to Burns. This lady, daughter and sole lieiress 
to Sir Tnomas Wiillace of Craigij, and lineal descend- 
ant of the illustrious Wallace, the first of Scottish war- 
riors, possesses the qualities of mind suited to her liigh 
lineage. Preserving, in the decline of life, the gene- 
rous affections of youth ; her admiration of the poet was 
soon accompanied iiy a sincere friendship i"or the man ; 
which puisued him in after-life through good and evil 
report ; in poverty, in sickness, and in sorrow ; and 
which is cniiiinued to liis infant family, now deprlvoj 
of their parent. 



30 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



own mnnncrs and npponrnnro oxccod'mp 
ovtM'v i'X|)*'i',t!ili(iii t.liiil could liiivo bot'ii 
formed oi'lliem, lirsooii hi'C.'imc iin objccl, 
of <i"i'ii('r;il curiosity Jiiid adiniriition. 'I'lio 
followiiifr circiimstiiiicc contributed to 
tills in a c()usi(I{>r!il)l(; depTtM!. — At tlio 
luiic w li(Mi Murns arrived in [''dinburncli, 
till- iii'ric^dical pnper, outilled Thi' Loiin- 
gcr, vviKS publisliin<>;, every Sdlurdiii/ pro- 
(iucinji; a sure(>sHivo nund)er. llisixienis 
Iiad iitt rncl ed I he not iee of t lie friMitlemeii 
ni^'iiired ill tluit uiiderliikiup, and the 
ninety-seventh niunlier oftliose une(]u;il, 
thoMfjh freiiueiitly beautiful essnys, is div 
voted to ./In .'irrouiit of liuhrrl Ihirns, tli.r 
Aijr.ihirc I'loiif^lniuin, irilli r.vtrdcfx from 
hi.t I'orins, written by tlie (deirant pen of 
I\Ir. Mii(dven/.ie.* 77n' I.ouni^rr had an 
c.\teiisiv(! eircuhilioii ainoiirr persons of 
taste and literature, not in Seotliuid only, 
but in various parts of l'',ni>land, to \vlios(> 
!U'(pi!iint!inc(! lhert>(ore our bard was im- 
inediiitely introduc(>d. 'I'he paper of Mr. 
Mmdieiizie was oalculntiMl to introdnoo 
him iidvantnireonsly. The extracts are 
wtdl S(d(>cted ; the rriticisms jind r(^flec- 
lioiis lire jndicions as well as fj^enerons ; 
and ill the stylo nnd siMitiments there is 
tliathajipy delicacy, by which the writinjrs 
of tli(! author, are so eminently distin- 
puislied. Tin; extracts from Hiirns's 
poems in Mie nini'ty-seveiilh number of 
The Lounixi'y were copied into the Ijon- 
(lon as well as into many of the provin- 
cial p!i])(>rs, and the fiime of our bard 
spread throuirhont the island. Of the 
manners, character, ami conduct of Hums 
at this period, the tollowiiip account lias 
been ;^iven by Mr. Stinvart, I'rofessor of 
Moral Philosophy in the university of 
Edinburj;h, in a letter to the editor, 
which he is particularly hap|)y to have 
obtiiiiKMl piM-mission to insert in these 
memoirs. 

" The first time T saw Robert l>nrns 
was on the 'J;id of October, 171.G, wlien 
lie dined at my house in Ayrshire, to- 
»relher with our common fri(>nd I\rr. .Tohn 
AIiicken/.i(>, surireon, in Mauchline, to 
whom 1 am indidited for the pleasure of 
his lUMinaintance. I am emibled to iikmi- 
tion the date particularly, by some verses 
wliich nnrns wroto after he returned 
home, and in which tli(< dnv of our ineet- 
inf^isrecorded. — My excellent and uiiicii 

* Tills piipcr linRlio<Mi utirihutoil, Imt linproprrly, to 
1.01(1 Cnili;, Olio of llio Sroliisli jmlt'i's, millior of llic 
very lnicrt'stlng iiccouut of Miclmcl llnuc in ilic :i(;;li 
number of The Mirror 



lamented friend, the lato Basil, Lord 
Daer, happened to arriv(> at Catrine tho 
same day, and by tlie kindness and frank- 
ness of his manners, left an impression on 
the mind of tiio poet, wliich never was 
elfaced. 'JMie verses I allude to are 
amonp the most imperfect of his pieces • 
but a few stnir/.as may perhaps be an ob- 
ject of curiosity to you, both on account 
of the character to which they relate, and 
of the lifi'ht which they throw on the situ- 
ation and feeliiio-s of th<> writer, beforo 
his name was known to tho public.* 

" I cannot positively sny at this dis- 
tance of time, whether at the period of 
our first ac(iuaiiitaiice, the Kilmarnock 
edition of his poems had biXMi just pub- 
lished, or was yet in I he press. 1 suspect 
that the latter was the case, as I have 
still in my possession copies in iiis own 
hand writiiifj;, of some of his favourite 
performances ; particularly of his ver- 
ses " on turning up a Mouse with his 
plough;" — "on tho Mountain Daisy;" 
and " the Lament." On my return to 
Edinburgh, 1 showed the volume, and 
nu'ntioned what 1 knew of the author's 
history to several of my friends : and, 
among others, to Mr. Henry Mackenzie, 
who first r(M'ommend(>d him to public no- 
tice in the !»7tli number of 'IVic Louns^cr. 

" At this time Bnrns's prospects in life 
were so extreni(>ly gloomy, tliat he had 
seriously formed a plan of going out to 
.laniaica in a very humble situation, not 
however without lamenting that his want 
of patronage should force him to think vt 
a project so repugnant to his feelings, 
when his ambition aimed at no higher an 
object than the station of an exciseman 
or ganger in his own country. 

" His manners were then, us they con- 
tinued ever afterwards, sinipl(\ manly 
and independent; strongly ('xjiressive ol 
conscious genius and worth; but without 
any thing tliat indicated forwardness, ar- 
rogance, or vanity. He took his share in 
coiiv(Msatiou, but not more iluin bidonged 
to him; and listened with ajiparent atten- 
tion ami diMeriMici^ on subjects where his 
want of education deprived him of the 
means of iuforniation. If tiiere had been 
a little more o'(>ntIeness and ncconnnoda- 
tion in his tiMiiiier, he would, I think, 
have been still more interesting; but ho 

• PiM' llic poem riiluli'd " I,iiios on an InU-ivuw viC 
Lord PHfr"— rooms, p. 77. 



THE LIFE 

had beon accustomed to give law in the 
circlo of his ordinary nc(iiiaintiitico ; and 
liiH dr(!ad of any thiiifr n|)|>ri)iicliiiifr (,0 
iiii uiiiicbH or Hcrvility, ruiidcTiul Jiis man- 
ner Honuiwliat decided and hard. No- 
thing, perhapH, waB more remarkahle 
among his various attaiinnents, than tlio 
(lur.Ticy, and pn-'eision, and originality of 
liis hingiiag(!, wIhmi lie npokc in company; 
more particularly as Ik; aimcid at purity 
in his turn of (ixpression, and avoided 
more Bucc(!ssfully than most Scotchmen, 
the peculiarities of {Scottish phraseology. 

" He came to Edinburgh early in the 
winter following, and rc-mniiujil there for 
several months. IJy wlios(; advice he 
took thin step, I am unabh; to say. Per- 
haps it was suggested only i)y his own 
curiosity to see a little more of the world ; 
but, I confess, 1 dreadfid the conse(|uen- 
ccs from the first, and always wished that 
his pursuits and habits should continue 
the same as in the former part of life ; 
with the addition of, what I considered 
as then completrdy within his reach, a 
goorl farm on moderate terms, in a part 
of the country agreeable to his taste. 

" The attentions he received during his 
stay in town, from all ranks and descrip- 
tions of persons, v/ere such as would have 
turrii'd any head but his own. I cannot 
Bay that I could perceive any unfavoura- 
ble efiiict which they left on his mind. 
lie rr-tained Ihe same siri}plicily of mjiri- 
ners and appearance which had struck 
me so forcibly when I first saw him in the 
country ; nor did he seem to feel any ad- 
ditional self-importance from the inimber 
and rank of his new acfjiuiintance. His 
dress was periV'ctly suited to his station, 
plain, and unpretending, wilh a sufficifint 
attention to neatness. If I recollect right 
he always wore boots ; and, when on 
more than usual ceremony, buck-skin 
breeches. 

"The varietyof his engagements, while 
in Edinburgh, prevented me from bcjuuij; 
him so often as I could have wished. In 
the course of the spring he called on me 
once or twice, at my request, (;arly in the 
morning, and walked with nie to Rraid- 
Hills, in the neighbourhood of the town, 
when he charmed me still mor*,' by his 
private conversation, than he had ever 
done in company. He was passionatrdy 
fond of the beauties of nature ; and I rc- 
collect once he told me when I was ad- 
mirinjf a distant prospect in one of our 



OF BdUNS. 



37 



morning walks, that the eight of so many 
smoking cottages gave a phiasure to hiy 
mind, vvliicli none could uixlerstand who 
had not witnessed, like himself, the hap- 
piness and the worth which they con- 
tained. 

"In his political prineiphjs he was then 
a .lacobiti! ; which was pcirhajiH owing 
|)artly to this, that his fatJHjr was original- 
ly from the estate of Lord IVIar(!SchalI. 
Ind(!ed he dirl not apjiear to hav(! thought 
much on such sid)j(;cts, nor very consis- 
tently. He had a very strong sense of 
rcdigion, and expressed deep nigret at tho 
levity with which he had heard it treated 
occasic)na,lly in some convivial nuictings 
which he fre<piented. 1 speak of iiim an 
he was in tin; wint(!r of 1 7of)-7 ; liir after- 
wards W(! in(;t but seldom, and our con- 
versations turni^l chifjfly on his literary 
projects, or his private aifairs. 

" I do not recollect whether it appears 
or not (rom any of your letters tf) me, 
that you had ever seen Uurns.* If you 
have, it is superfluous for me to add, that 
the idea which his conversation conveyed 
ofthe powers ofhis mind.exceedeil,if j)0ssi- 
ble,tljM,t which is suggested by his writings. 
Among the poets whom I have hiipjiened 
to know, I havebt^en struck in more than 
one instance, with the unaccountable dis- 
parity between their g'Uieral tiilents, and 
till! occasional irisj)ira.tiojis of their more 
favourabh; moments. I'.ut all the faculties 
of Hurns's mind wen;, as far I could judge, 
f!(pi;illy vigorous ; and his j)redil(!Ction 
for poetry was rather the result of his 
own enthusiastic and irripassionf;d tf;mper, 
than of a genius exclusively adapted to 
that species of composition. From his 
conversation I should havr; pronounced 
him to be fitted to excr;l in whatever walk 
of ambition he had chosen to exert hin 
abilities. 

" Among the subjects on which he was 
accustomed to dwell, the characters of 
the individuals with whom he hapjiened 
to nie(;t, was plainly a favourite one. 
The remarks he; rnadi; on them were al- 
ways shrewd and pointed, though fre- 
quently inclining too much to sarcasm. 
His praise of those he loved was fiomo- 
times indiKcrimimite and extravagant ; 
but this, I suspect, proceeded rather from 
the caprice and hMrnonr of tin; rnom(;nt. 
than from the effects of attachment in 

* Tliu Editor haii locn and cniivcrucil witli Fiuriui 



38 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



blinding his judgment. His wit was 
ready, and always impressed with the 
marks of a vigorous understanding ; but 
to my taste, not often pleasing or happy. 
His attempts at epigram, in his printed 
works, are the only performances, per- 
haps, that he has produced, totally un- 
worthy of his genius. 

"In summer, 1787, I passed some 
weeks in Ayrshire, and saw Burns occa- 
sionally. I think that he made a pretty 
long excursion that season to the High- 
lands, and that he also visited what Beat- 
tie calls the Arcadian ground of Scot- 
land, upon the banks of tlie Tiviot and 
the Tweed. 

" I should have mentioned before, that 
notwithstanding various reports I heard 
during the preceding winter, of Burns's 
predilection for convivial, and not very 
select society, I should have concluded 
in favour of his habits of sobriety, from 
',1.11 of Iiim that ever fell under my own 
observation. He told me indeed himself, 
that the weakness of his stomach was such 
as to deprive him entirely of any merit in 
his temperance. I was however somewhat 
alarmed about the effect of his now compa- 
ratively sedentary and luxurious life, when 
he confessed to me, the first night he spent 
in my house after his winter's campaign 
in town, that he had been much disturbed 
when in bed, by a palpitation of his heart, 
which, he said, was a complaint to which 
he had of late become subject. 

" In the course of thf- same season I 
was led by curiosity to attend for an hour 
or two a Mason-Lodge in Mauchline, 
where Burns presided He had occasion 
to make some short mipremeditated com- 
pliments to different individuals from 
whom he had no reason to expect a visit, 
and every thing ht said was happily con- 
ceived, and forcibly as well as fluently 
expressed. If I am not mistaken, he told 
me that in that village, before going to Ed- 
inburgli, he liad belonged to a small club 
of such of the inhabitants as had a taste 
for books, when they used to converse 
and debate on any interesting questions 
that occurred to them in the course of 
their reading. His manner of speaking 
in public had evidently the marks of some 
practice in extempore elocution. 

" I must not omit to mention, what I 
have always considered as cliaracteristical 
i;i SI Iiigh degree of true {renins, the ex- 



treme facility and good-nature of hia 
taste in judging of the compositions of 
others, where there was any real ground 
for praise. I repeated to him many ptis- 
sages of Englisli poetry with which he 
was unacquainted, and have more than 
once witnessed the tears of admiration 
and rapture with which he heard them. 
The collection of songs by Dr. Aikin, 
which I first put into his hands, he read 
with unmixed delight, notwithstanding 
his former efforts in that very difficult 
species of writing ; and I have little doubt 
that it had some effect in polishing liis 
subsequent compositions. 

" In judging of prose, I do not think 
his taste was equally sound. I once read 
to him a passage or two in Franklin's 
Works, which I thought very happily ex- 
ecuted, upon the model of Addison ; but 
he did not appear to relish, or to perceive 
the beauty which they derived from their 
exquisite simplicity, and spoke of them 
with indifference, when compared with 
the point, and antithesis, and quaintness 
of Junius. The influence of this taste is 
very perceptible in his own prose com- 
positions, although their great and vari- 
ous excellences render some of them 
scarcely less objects of wonder than his 
poetical performances. The late Dr 
Robertson used to say, that considering 
his education, the former seemed to him 
the more extraordinary of the two. 

" His memory was uncommonly reten- 
tive, at least for poetry, of which he re- 
cited to me frequently long compositions 
with the most minute accuracy. They 
were chiefly ballads, and other pieces in 
our Scottish dialect ; great part of tliem 
(he told me) he had learned in his cliild- 
hood from his mother, who delighted in 
such recitations, and whose poetical taste, 
rude, as it probably was, gave, it is pre- 
sumable, the first direction to her son's 
genius. 

" Of the more polished verses which 
accidentally fell into liis hands in his early 
years, lie mentioned particularly the re- 
commendatory poems, by different au- 
thors, prefixed to Hervei/'s Meditations ; 
a book which has always had a very wide 
circulation among such of the country 
people of Scotland, as affect to unite 
some degree of taste with their religious 
studies. And these poems (although they 
are certainly below mediocrity) he con- 
tinued to read with a degree of rapture 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



39 



beyond expression. lie took notice of 
this fact himself, as a proof how much 
the taste is liable to be influenced by acci- 
dental circumstances. 

" His father appeared to mo, from the 
account he gave of him, to have been a 
respectable and worthy character, pos- 
sessed of a mind superior to what might 
have been expected from his station in 
life. He ascribed much of his own prin- 
ciples and feelings to the early impres- 
sions he had received from his instruction 
and example. I recollect that he once 
applied to him (and he added, that the 
passage was a literal statement of fact) 
the two last lines of the following passage 
in tlie J\Iinf/trcl: the whole of which he 
repeated with great enthusiasm : 

Shall I be left forgotten in the dust, 

When fate, relenting, lets the flower revive ! 
Shall nature's voice, to man alone unju^'l, 

Bid liim, though doom'd to perish, liopo to livcl 
Is it for this £air virtue oft must btrive, 

With disappointment, penury, and pain'J 
No I Heaven's immortal spring shall yet arrive; 

And man's majestic beauty bloom again. 
Bright thro' the eternal year of love's triumphant 
reign. 

This truth sublime, his simple sire had taught : 
f In sooth, Hwas almost all the shr.pherd knew. 

" With respect to Burns's early educa- 
tion, I cannot say any thing with certain- 
ty. He always spoke witli respect and 
gratitude of the schoolmaster who had 
taught him to read English ; and who, 
finding in his scholar a more than ordina- 
ry ardour for knowledge, Iiad been at 
pains to instruct him in the grammatical 
principles of the language. He began the 
study of Latin, and dropt it before he had 
finished the verbs. I have sometimes 
heard him quote a few Latin words, such 
as omnia vincit amor, &c. but they seem- 
ed to be such as he had caught from con- 
versation, and which he repeated by rote. 
I think he had a project, after he came to 
Edinburgh, of prosecuting the study un- 
der his intimate friend, the late Mr. Nicol, 
one of the masters of the grammar-school 
hero ; but I do not know that he ever pro- 
ceeded so far as to make the attempt. 

*' He certainly possessed a smattering 
of French ; and, if he had an affectation 
in any thing, it was in introducing occa- 
sionally a word or phrase from that lan- 
guage. It is possible tltat his knowledge 
in tills respect might be more extensive 
tJian I suppose it to bo ; but this you can 



learn from his more intimate acquaint 
ance. It would be worth while to inquire, 
whether he was able to read the French 
authors with such facility as to receive 
from them any improvement to his taste. 
For my own Bart, I doubt it much ; nor 
would I believe it, but on very strong and 
pointed evidence. 

" If my memory does not fail me, he 
was well instructed in arithmetic, and 
knew something of practical geometry, 
particularly of surveying — All his other 
attainments were entirely his own. 

" The last time I saw him was during 
the winter, 1788-89,* when he passed an 
evening with me at Drumseugh, in the 
neighbourhood of Edinburgh, where I was 
then living. My friend, Mr. Alison, was 
the only other person in company. I never 
saw him more agreeable or interesting. 
A present which Mr. Alison sent him af- 
terwards of his Essays on Taste, drew 
from Burns a letter of acknowledgment 
which I remember to have read with some 
degree of surprise at the distinct concep- 
tion he appeared from it to have formed 
of the general principles of the doctrine 
of association. When I saw Mr. Alison 
in Shropshire last autumn, I forgot to in- 
quire if the letter be still in existence. It' 
it is, you may easily procure it, by means 
of our friend Mr. Houlbrooke."f 



The scene that opened on our bard in 
Edinburgh was altogether new, and in a 
variety of other respects highly interest 
ing, especially to one of his disposition ot 
mind. To use an expression of his own, 
he found himself, " suddenly translated 
from the veriest shades of life," into the 
presence, and, indeed, into the society of 
a number of persons, previously known to 
him by report as of the highest distinc- 
tion in his country, and whose characters 
it was natural for him to examine with no 
common curiosity. 

From the men of letters, in general, his 
reception was particularly flattering. Tlic 

''= Or rat'ner 1789-90. I cannot speak with con/1- 
dence with respect to the particular year. Some of 
my other dates may possibly require correction, a» I 
lieep no journal of such occurrences. 

+ This letter is Nc CXIV 



40 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



.ate Dr. Robertson, Dr. Blair, Dr. Gre- 
gory, Mr. Stewart, Mr. Mackenzie, and 
Mr. Frazer Tytler, may be mentioned in 
the list of tiiose who perceived his un- 
common talents, who acknowledged more 
especially his powers in conversation, and 
who interested themselves in the cultiva- 
tion of his genius. In Edinburgh, litera- 
ry and fashionable society are a good deal 
mixed. Our bard was an acceptable guest 
in the gayest and most elevated circles, 
and frequently received from female beau- 
ty and elegance, those attentions above 
all others most grateful to him. At 
the table of Lord Monboddo he was a 
frequent guest ; and while he enjoyed the 
society, and partook of the hospitalities of 
the venerable judge, he experienced the 
kindness and condescension of his lovely 
and accomplished daughter. The singu- 
lar beauty of this young lady was illumi- 
nated by that happy expression of coun- 
tenance which results from the union of 
cultivated taste and superior understand- 
ing, with the finest affections of the mind. 
Tlie influence of such attractions was not 
unfelt by our poet. " There has not been 
any thing hke Miss Burnet, (said he in a 
letter to a friend,) in all the combina- 
tion of beauty, grace, and goodness the 
Creator has formed, since Milton's Eve, 
on the first day of her existence." In his 
Address to Edinburgh, she is celebrated 
in a strain of still greater elevation : 

" Fair Kurnet strikes tli' adoring eye, 
Heaven's beauties on my fancy sliine ! 

I see the Sire of Love on \\\g\i, 
And own his worl< indeed divine 1" 

This lovely woman died a few years af- 
terwards in the flower of youth. Our 
bard expressed his sensibility on that oc- 
casion, in verses addressed to her memory. 

Among the men of rank and fashion. 
Burns was particularly distinguished by 
James, Earl of Glencairn. On the mo- 
tion of this nobleman, the Caledonian 
Hunt, an association of the principal of 
the nobility and gentry of Scotland, ex- 
tended their patronage to our bard, and 
admitted him to their gay orgies. He re- 
paid their notice by a dedication of the 
enlarged and improved edition of his po- 
ems, in Avhich he has celebrated their pa- 
triotism and independence in very ani- 
mated terms. 

" I congratulate my country that the 
blood of her ancient heroes runs uncon- 
taminatcd ; and that, from your courage, 



knowledge, and public spirit, slie may ex- 
pect protection, wealth, and liberty. "*=*'*• 
May corruption shrink at your kindling 
indignant glance ; and may tyranny in tho 
Ruler, and licentiousness in the People, 
equally find in you an inexorable foe I"* 



It is to be presumed that these gene- 
rous sentiments, uttered at an era singu- 
larly propitious to independence of cha- 
racter and conduct, were favourably re- 
ceived by the persons to whom they were 
addressed, and that they were echoed 
from every bosom, as well as from that 
of the Earl of Glencairn. This accom- 
plished nobleman, a scholar, a man of taste 
and sensibility, died soon afterwards. Had 
he lived, and had his power equalled hia 
wishes, Scotland might still have exulted 
in the genius, instead of lamenting the 
early fate of her favourite bard. 

A taste for letters is not always con- 
joined with habits of temperance and re- 
gularity; and Edinburgh, at the period of 
which we speak, contained perhaps an un- 
common proportion of men of consider- 
able talents, devoted to social excesses, in 
which their talents were wasted and de- 
based. 

Burns entered into several parties of this 
description, with the usual vehemence of 
his character. His generous affections, 
his ardent eloquence, his brilliant and 
daring imagination, fitted him to be the 
idol of such associations ; and accustom- 
ing himself to conversation of unlimited 
range, and to festive indulfjences that 
scorned restraint, he gradually lost some 
portion of his relish for the more pure, but 
less poignant pleasvires, to be found in the 
circles of taste, elegance, and literature. 
The sudden alteration in his habits of life 
operated on him physically as well as 
morally. Tlie humble fare of an Ayr- 
shire peasant he had exchanged for the 
luxuries of the Scottish metropolis, and 
the effects of this change on his ardent 
constitution could not be inconsiderable. 
But whatever influence might be pro- 
duced on his conduct, his excellent under- 
standing suffered no corresponding de- 
basement. He estimated his friends and 
associates of every description at their 
proper value, and appreciated his own 
conduct with a precision that might give 

* See Dedication prefixed to the Poems 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



41 



scope to much curious and melancholy 
roriection. He saw his danger, and at 
times formed resolutions to guard against 
it ; but he had embarked on tJie tide of dis- 
sipation, and was borne along its stream. 

Of the state of his mind at this time, an 
authentic, though imperfect document re- 
mains, in a book which ho procured in the 
spring of 1707, for the purpose, as he him- 
self informs us, of recording in it what- 
ever seemed worthy of observation. The 
following extracts may serve as a speci- 
men: 

Edinburgh, April 9, 1787. 
" As I have seen a good deal of human 
life in Edinburgh, a great many charac- 
ters which are new to one bred up in the 
shades of life as I have been, I am deter- 
mined to take down my remarks on the 
spot. Gray observes, m a letter to Mr. 
Palgrave, that ' half a word fixed upon, 
or near the spot, is worth a cart load of 
recollection'. 1 don't know how it is 
with the world in general, but with me, 
making my remarks is by no means a 
solitary pleasure. I want some one to 
laugh with me, some one to be grave with 
me, some one to please me and help my 
discrimination, with his or her own re- 
mark, and at times, no doubt, to admire 
my acuteness and penetration. The world 
are so busied with selfish pursuits, ambi- 
tion, vanity, interest, or pleasure, that 
very few think it worth tlieir while to 
make any observation on what passes 
around them, except where that observa- 
tion is a sucker, or branch of the darling 
plant they are rearing in their fancy. 
Nor am I sure, notwithstanding all the 
sentimental flights of novel-writers, and 
the sage philosophy of moralists, whether 
we are capable of so intimate and cor- 
dial a coalition of friendship, as that one 
man may pour out his bosom, his every 
thought and floating fancy, his very in- 
most soul, with unreserved confidence to 
another, without hazard of losing part of 
that respect which man deserves from 
man ; or, from the unavoidable imperfec- 
tions attending human nature, of one day 
repenting his confidence. 

" For these reasons I am determined to 
make these pages my confidant, I will 
sketch every character that any way strikes 
nie, to the best of my power, with un- 
shrinking justice. I will insert anecdotes, 
and take down remarks in the old law 
j)hrase, without feud or favour. — Where 



I hit on any thing clever, my own ap- 
plause will, in some measure, feast my 
vanity ; and, begging Patroclus' and 
Achates' pardon, I think a lock and key 
a security, at least equal to the bosom of 
any friend whatever. 

" My own private story likewise, my 
love adventures, my rambles ; the frowns 
and smiles of fortune on my hardship ; 
my poems and fragments, that must never 
see the Hght, shall be occasionally insert- 
ed. — In short, never did four shillings 
purchase so much friendship, since confi- 
dence went first to market, or honesty 
was set up to sale. 

" To these seemingly invidious, hut too 
just ideas of human friendship, I would 
cheerfully make one exception — the con- 
nexion between two persons of different 
sexes, when their interests are united and 
absorbed by the tie of love — 

When tlionght meets thought, ere from the lips it part, 
And each warm wish springs mutual from Ihe heart. 

There confidence, confidence that exalts 
them the more in one another's opinion, 
that endears them the more to each other's 
hearts, unreservedly " reigns and revels." 
But this is not my lot ; and, in my situa- 
tion, if I am wise, (which, by the by, I 
have no great chance of being,) my fate 
should be cast with the Psalmist's spar- 
row, " to watch alone on the house-tops." 
—Oh ! the pity ! 



" There are few of the sore evils under 
the sun give me more uneasiness and cha- 
grin than the comparison how a man of 
genius, nay, of avowed worth, is received 
every where, with the reception which a 
mere ordinary character, decorated with 
the trappings and futile distinctions of 
fortune meets. I imagine a man of abili- 
ties, his breast glowing with honest pride, 
conscious that men are born equal, still 
^ivino- honour to ichom honour is due ; he 
meets at a great man's table, a Squire 
something, or a Sir somebody ; he knows 
the noble landlord, at heart, gives the bard, 
or whatever he is, a share of his good 
wishes, beyond, perhaps, anyone at table; 
yet how will it mortify him 'to see a fel- 
low, whose abilities would scarcely have 
made an eight-penny tailor, and whose 
heart is not" worth three farthings, meet 
with attention and notice, that are with- 
held from the son of genius and poverty^ 



43 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



" The noble Glencairn has wounded 
me to the soul here, because I dearly es- 
teem, respect, and love him. He showed 
BO much attention, engrossing- attention 
one day, to the only blockhead at table 
(the whole company consisted of his lord- 
ship, dnnderpate, and myself,) that I was 
within half a point of throwing down my 
gage of contemptuos defiance ; but he 
shook my hand, and looked so benevolent- 
ly good at parting. God bless him ! 
though I should never see him more, I 
shall love him until my dying day ! I am 
pleased to think I am so capable of the 
throes of gratitude, as I am miserably 
deficient in some other virtues. 

" With Dr. Blair I am more at my 
ease. I never respect him with humble 
veneration ; but when he kindly interests 
himself in my welfare, or still more, when 
he descends from his pinnacle, and meets 
me on equal ground in conversation, my 
heart overflows with what is called liking. 
When he neglects me for the mere car- 
cass of greatness, or when his eye mea- 
sures the dificrence of our points of ele- 
vation, I say to myself, with scarcely any 
emotion, what do I care for him or his 
pomp either ?" 



The intentions of the poet in procuring 
this book, so fully described by himself, 
were very imperfectly executed. Ho has 
inserted in it few or no incidents, but 
several observations and reflections, of 
which the greater part that are proper 
for the public eye, will be found inter- 
woven in his letters. The most curious 
particulars in the book are the delinea- 
tions of the characters he met with. 
These are not numerous ; but they are 
chiefly of persons of distinction in the re- 
public of letters, and nothing but the de- 
licacy and respect due to living charac- 
ters prevents us from committing them to 
the press. Though it appears that in 
his conversation he was sometimes dis- 
posed to sarcastic remarks on the men 
with whom he lived, nothing of tliis kind 
is discoverable in tliese more deliberate 
efforts of his understanding, which, while 
they exhibit groat clearness of discrimi- 
nation, manifost also the wish, as well as 
the power, to bestow high and generous 
praise. 

As a specimen of these delineations, 
we give in this edition, the character of 



Dr. Blair, who has now paia the debt of 
nature, in the full confidence that this 
freedom will not be found inconsistent 
with the respect and veneration due to 
that excellent man, the last star in the 
literary constellation, by which the me- 
tropolis of Scotland was, in the earlier 
part of the present reign, so beautifully 
illuminated. 

" It is not easy forming an exact judg. 
ment of any one ; but, in my opinion, Dr. 
Blair is merely an astonishingproof of what 
industry and application can do. Natu- 
ral parts like his are frequently to be met 
with ; his vanity is proverbially known 
among his acquaintance ; but he is justly 
at the head of what may be called fine 
writing ; and a critic of the first, the very 
first rank in prose ; even in poetry, a bard 
of Nature's making can only take the ^aj 
of him. He has a heart, not of the very 
finest water, but far from being an ordi- 
nary one. In short, he is truly a worthy, 
and most respectable character." 



By the new edition of his poems, Burns 
acquired a sum of money that enabled 
him not only to partake of the pleasures 
of Edinburgh, but to gratify a desire he 
had long entertained, of visiting those 
parts of his native country, most attrac- 
tive by their beauty or their grandeur ; a 
desire which the return of summer natii 
rally revived. The scenery on the banks 
of the Tweed, and of its tributary streams, 
strongly interested his fancy; and ac- 
cordingly he left Edinburgh on the 6th 
of May, 1787, on a tour through a coun- 
try so much celebrated in the rural songs 
of Scotland. He travelled on horseback, 
and was accompanied, during some part 
of his journey, by Mr. Ainslie, now wri- 
ter to the signet, a gentleman who on- 
joyed much of his friendship and of Ids 
confidence. Of this tour a journal re- 
mains, which, however, contains only oc- 
casional remarks on the scenery, and 
which is chiefly occupied with an account 
of the author's difl'erent stages, and with 
his observations on the various characters 
to whom he was introduced. In the 
course of this tour he visited Mr. Ainslie 
of Berry well, the father of his companion ; 
Mr. Brydone, the celebrated traveller, to 
whom he carried a letter of introduction 
from Mr. Mackenzie ; the Rev. Dr. Som- 
merville of .Tedburgh, the historian ; Mr 
and Mrs. Scott of Wauchope ; Dr. Elliot, 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



43 



a physician, retired to a romantic spot on 
the banks of the Roole; Sir Alexander 
Don; Sir J'ames Hall, of Diirifjlass ; and 
a great variety of other respectable cha- 
racters. Every where the fame of the 
poet had spread before him, and every 
where he received the most hospitable 
and flattering attentions. At Jedburgh 
he continued several days, and was 'ho- 
noured by the magistrates with the free- 
dom of their borough. The following 
may serve as a specimen of this tour, 
which the perpetual reference to living 
characters prevents our giving at large. 

" Saturday, May 6th. Left Edinburgh 

■Lammer-muir-hills, miserably dreary 

in general, but at times very picturesque. 

" Lanson-edge, a glorious view of the 
Merse. Reach Berry well * * * The 
family-meeting with my compas^non de 
voyage, very charming ; particularly the 
sister. * * 

" Sunday. Went to church at Dunse. 
Heard Dr. Bowmaker. * * * 

" Monday. Coldstream — glorious ri- 
ver Tweed — clear and majestic — fine 
bridge — dine at Coldstream with Mr. 
AinsUe and Mr. Foreman. Beat Mr. 
Foreman in a dispute about Voltaire. 
Drink tea at Lenel-House with Mr. and 
Mrs. Brydone. * * * Reception extreme- 
ly flattering. Sleep at Coldstream. 

" Tueaday. Breakfast at Kelso — 
charming situation of the town — fine 
bridge over the Tweed. Enchanting 
views and prospects on both sides of the 
river, especially on the Scotch side. * * 
Visit Roxburgh Palace — fine situation of 
it. Ruins of Roxburgh Castle — a holly- 
bush growing where .Tames II. was acci- 
dentally killed by the bursting of a can- 
non. A small old religious ruin, and a 
fine old garden planted by the religious, 
rooted out and destroyed by a Hottentot, 
a maitre d'hote/, of the Duke's — Climate 
and soil of Berwickshire and even Rox- 
burghshire, superior to Ayrshire — bad 
roads — turnip and sheep husbandry, their 
great improvements. * * * Low mar- 
kets, consequently low lands — magni- 
ficence of farmers and farm-houses. Come 
up the Tiviot, and up the .Ted to .Tedburgh 
to lie, and so wish myself good-night. 

" Wednesday. Breakfast with Mr. 
Fair. * * * Charming romantic situa- 
Q2 



tion of Jedburgh, with gardens and or- 
chards, intermingled among the houses 
and the ruins of a once magnificent cathe- 
dral. All the towns here have the ap- 
pearance of old rude grandeur, but ex- 
tremely idle. — Jed, a fine romantic little 
river. Dined with Capt. Rutherford, 
* * * return to Jedburgh. Walk up the 
Jed with some ladies to be shown Love- 
lane, and Blackburn, two fairy-scenes. 
Introduced to Mr. Potts, writer, and to 
Mr. Sommerville, the clergyman of the 
parish, a man, and a gentleman, but sadly 
addicted to punning. 



" Jedburgh, Saturday. Was presented 
by the magistrates with the freedom of 
the town. 

" Took farewell of Jedburgh with 
some melancholy sensations. 

'•'■Monday, May ^Ath, Kelso. Dine 
with the farmer's club — all gentlemen 
talking of high matters — each of them 
keeps a hunter from 30/. to 50/. value, 
and attends the fox-hunting club in the 
country. Go out with Mr. Ker, one of the 
club, and a friend of Mr. Ainslie's, to sleep. 
In his mind and manners, Mr. Ker is aston- 
ishingly like my dear old friend Robert 
Muir — every thing in his house elegant. 
He offers to accompany me in my English 
tour. 

" Tuesday. Dine with Sir Alexander 
Don : a very wet day. * * * Sleep at 
Mr. Ker's again, and set out next day for 
Melross — visit Dryburgh, a fine old ruined 
abbey, by the way. Cross the Leader, 
and come up the Tweed to Melross. Dine 
there, and visit that far-famed glorious 
ruin — Come to Selkirk up the banks of 
Ettrick. The whole country hereabouts, 
both on Tweed and Ettrick, remarkably 
stony." 



Having spent three weeks in exploring 
this interesting scenery. Burns crossed 
over into Northumberland. Mr. ICer, 
and Mr. Hood, two gentlemen with whom 
he had become acquainted in the course 
of his tour, accompanied him. He visited 
Alnvvick-Castle, the princely seat of the 
Duke of Northumberland ; the hermitage 
and old castle of Warksworth , Morpeth, 
and Newcastle. — In tiiis last town he 



44 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



spent two days, and then proceeded to the 
Koiith-wcst hy Hexham and Wardrue, to 
Carlisle. — After spondino- a day at Car- 
4slc with his friend Mr. Mitcliell, lie re- 
turned into Scotland, and at Annan his 
journal terminates abruptly. 

Of the various persons with whom he 
became acquainted in the course of this 
journey, he has, in general, given some 
account ; and almost always a favourable 
one. That on the banks of the Tweed, 
and of the Tiviot, our bard should find 
nyrnj)lis that were beautiful, is what might 
be confidently presumed. Two of these 
are particularly described in his journal. 
But it does not appear thnt the scenery, 
or its inhabitants, ])roduced any eflbrt of 
his muse, as was to have been wished and 
expected. From Annan, Burns proceed- 
ed to Dumfries, and thence through San- 
quhar, to Mossgiol, near Mauchline, in 
Ayrshire, where he arrived about the 0th 
of .Time, 1787, after a long absence of six 
busy and eventful months. It will easily 
be conceived with what pleasure and 
pride he was received by his mother, liis 
brothers, and sisters. lie had left them 
poor, and comparatively friendless : lie 
returned to them high in public estima- 
tion, and easy in his circumstances. Ho 
returned to them unchanged in his ardent 
affccti(Mis, and ready to share with them 
to the uttermost farthing, the pittance 
that fortune had bestowed. 

Having remained with them a few days, 
he proceeded again to Edinburgh, and 
imniiMliately set out on a journey to the 
Highlands. Of this tour no particulars 
have been found among his manuscripts. 
A letter to his friend Mr. Ainslie, dated 
Jlrrarhns, near Crnchairbas, by LorhlearT/, 
June 28, 1787, commences as follows : 

" I write you this on my tour tlirouirh 
a country where savage streams tumble 
over savage moiuitains, thinly overspread 
with savage flocks, which starvingly sup- 
port as savage inhabitants. My last stage 
was Tnverary — to-morrow night's stage, 
Dumbarton. I o\ight sooner to have an- 
swered your kind letter, but you know I 
am a man of many sins. 

Part of a letter from our Bard to a 
friend, giving some account of his journey, 
has been r(Miunuuicat'"'d to the Editor 
since the piiblication of the last edition. 
The reader will be amused with the fol- 
•owintr extract. 



" On our return, at a Highland gentle- 
man's hospitable mansion, we fell in with 
a merry party, and danced till the ladies 
left us, at three in the morning. Our 
dancing was none of the P>ench or Eng- 
lish insipid formal movements; the ladies 
sung Scotch songs like angels, at inter- 
vals ; then we flew at Bab at the Brow- 
st^r, Tuliochs^ofvm, Loch Erroch side,* 
Slc. like midges sporting in the mottle 
sun, or craws prognosticating a storm in 
a hairst day. — Wlien the dear lasses left 
us we ranged round the bowl till the 
good-fellow hour of six : except a few 
minutes that we went out to pay our de- 
votions to the glorious lamp of day peer- 
ing over the towering top of Benlomond. 
We all kneeled ; our worthy landlord's 
son held the bowl ; each man a full glass 
in his hand ; and I, as priest, repeated 
some rhyming nonsense, like Thomas-a- 
Rhymer's prophecies I suppose. — After a 
small refreshment of the gifts of Somnus, 
we proceeded to spend the day on Loch- 
lomond, and readied Dumbarton in tlie 
evening. We dined at another goodfel- 
low's house, and consequently pushed 
the bottle ; when we went out to mount 
our horses we found ourselves " No vera 
fon but gaylie yet." My two friends and 
I rode soberly down the Loch-side, till by 
came a Highlanduian at the gallop, on a 
tolerably good horse, but which had never 
known the ornaments of iron or leather 
We scorned to be out-galloped by a High- 
landmau, so off we started, whip and 
spur. My companions, though seemingly 
gayly mounted, fell sadly astern ; but my 
old mare, .Tenny Geddes, one of the Rosi- 
nante family, she strained past the High- 
landmnn in spite of all his eflbrts, with 
the hair-halter : just as I was passing 
him, Donald wheeled his horse, as if to 
cross before mo to mar my progress, 
when down came his horse, and threw 
Jiis rider's brcekless a — e in a dipt hedge ; 
and down cnmo .Tenny Geddes over all, 
and my hardship between her and the 
Highlanduum's horse. Jenny Geddes 
trode over me with s.uch cautious reve- 
rence, that matters were not so bad as 
might well have been expected ; so I 
came off with a few cuts and bruises, and 
a thorough resolution to be a pattern of 
sobriety for the future. 

"I have yet fixed on nothing with re- 
spect to the serious business of life. I 
am, just as usual, a rhyming, mason-ma- 

* Scotch tunes. 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



4S 



king, raking, aimless, idle fpllow. How- 
ever 1 nliall somewhere havp a farm soon. 
I was going to say, a wifo t-o : but that 
must never be my blessed lot. I am but 
a yomigcrson of the house of Parnassus, 
and like other younger sons of great fami- 
lies, I may intrigue, if I choose to run all 
risks, but must not marry. 

" I am afraid I have almost ruined one 
source, the principal one indeed, of my 
former happiness ; that eternal propen- 
sity I always had to fall in love. My 
heart no more glows with feverish rap- 
ture. I have no paradisical evening in- 
terviews stolon from the restless cares 
and prying inhabitants of this weary 
world. I have only * * * *. This last 
is one of your distant acquaintances, has 
a hue figure, and elegant manners ; and 
in the train of some great folks whom you 
know, has seen the politest quarters in 
Europe. T do like her a good deal ; but 
what piques me is her conduct at the 
commencement of our acquaintance. I 

frequently visited her when I was in , 

and after passing regularly the interme- 
diate degrees between the distant formal 
bow and the familiar grasp round the 
waist, I ventured in my careless way to 
talk of friendship in rather ambiguous 

terms ; and after her return to , I 

wrote to her in the same style. Miss, 
construing my words fartlier I suppose 
than even I intended, flew off in a tan- 
gent of female dignity and reserve, like 
a mountain-lark in an April morning : and 
wrote me an answer which measured me 
out very completely what an immense 
way I had to travel before I could reach 
the climate of her favour. But I am an 
old hawk at the sport ; and wrote her 
such a cool, deliberate, prudent reply, as 
brought my bird from her aerial tower- 
ings, pop down at my foot like corporal 
Trim s hat. 

" As for the rest of my acts, and my 
wars, and all my wise sayings, and why 
my mare was called .Tenny Geddcs; they 
shall be recorded in a few weeks hence, 
at Lmlithgow, in the chronicles of your 
memory, by 

" Robert Burns." 



From this journey Burns returned to 
his frionds m Ayrshire, with whom he 
spent the month of .Tuly, renewing his 
friendships, and extending his acquaint- 



ance throughout the country, where Iio 
was now very generally known and ad- 
mired. In August he again visited Edin- 
burgh, whence he undertook another jour- 
ney towards the middle of this month, in 
company with Mr. M. Adair, now Dr. 
Adair, of Harrowgate, of which this gen- 
tleman has favoured us with the follow- 
ing account. 

" Burns and 1 left Edinburgh together 
in August, 1787. We rode by Linlith- 
gow and Carron, to Stirling. We visited 
the iron-works at Carron, with which the 
poet was forcibly struck. The resem- 
blance between that place, and its inha- 
bitants, to the cave of Cyclops, which 
must have occurred to every classical 
reader, presented itself to Burns. At 
Stirling the prospects from the castle 
strongly interested him ; in a former visit 
to which, his national feelings had been 
powerfully excited by the ruinous and 
roofless state of the hall in which the 
Scottish parliaments had been held. His 
indignation had vented itself in some im- 
prudent, but not unpoctical lines, which 
had given much offence, and which he 
took this opportunity of erasing, by break- 
ing the pane of the windov7 at the inn on 
which they were written. 

" At Stirling we met with a company of 
travellers from Edinburgh, among whom 
was a character in many respects conge- 
nial with that of Burns. This was Nicol, 
one of the teachers of the High Grammar- 
School at Edinburgh — the same wit and 
power of conversation ; the same fondness 
for convivial society, and thoughtlessness 
of to-morrow, characterized both. Jaco- 
bitical principles in politics were common 
to both of them ; and these have been sus- 
pected, since the revolution of France, to 
have given place in each, to opinions ap- 
parently opposite. I regret that I have 
preserved no memornhUia of their conver- 
sation, either on this or on other occa- 
sions, when I happened to meet them to- 
gether. Many songs were sung, which I 
mention for the sake of observing, that 
when Burns was called on in his turn, he 
was accustomed, instead of singing, to re- 
cite one or other of his own shorter po- 
ems, with a tone and emphasis, which, 
though not correct or harmonious, were 
impressive and pathetic. This he did on 
the present occasion 

" From Stirling we went next morning 
through the ronrantic and fertile vale of 



46 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



Devon to Harvieston in Clackmannan- 
shire, then inhabited by Mrs. Hamilton, 
with the younger part of whose family 
Burns had been previously acquainted. 
He introduced me to the family, and there 
was formed my first acquaintance with 
Mrs. Hamilton's eldest daughter, to whom 
I have been married for nine years. Thus 
was I indebted to Burns for a connexion 
from which I have derived, and expect 
further to derive much happiness. 

" During a residence of about ten days 
at Harvieston, we made excursions to vi- 
sit various parts of the surrounding sce- 
nery, inferior to none in Scotland, in beau- 
ty, sublimity, and romantic interest ; par- 
ticularly Castle Campbell, the ancient 
seat of the family of Argyle ; and the fa- 
mous Cataract of the Devon, calleij the 
Caldron Linn ; and the Rnmhlins: Bridge, 
a single broad arch, thrown by the Devil, 
if tradition is to be believed, across the 
river, at about the height of a hundred 
feet above its bed. I am surprised that 
none of these scenes should have called 
Forth an exertion of Burns's muse. But 
I doubt if he had much taste for the pic- 
turesque. I well remember, that the la- 
dies at Harvieston, who accompanied us 
on this jaunt, expressed their disappoint- 
ment at his not expressing in more glow- 
ing and fervid language, his impressions 
of the Caldron Linn scene, certainly high- 
ly sublime, and somewhat horrible. 

" A visit to Mrs. Bruce, of Clackman- 
nan, a lady above ninety, the lineal de- 
scendant of that race which gave the 
Scottish throne its brightest ornament, 
interested his feelings more powerfully. 
This venerable dame, with characteristic- 
al dignity, informed me on my observing 
that I believed she was descended from the 
familyof Robert Bruce, that Robert Bruce 
was sprung from her family. Though al- 
most deprived of speech by a paralytic af- 
fection, she preserved her hospitality and 
urbanity. Slie was in possession of the 
hero's helmet and two-handed sword, with 
which she conferred on Burns and myself 
the honour of knighthood, remarking, 
that she ha,d a better right to confer that 
title than somn people. * * You will of 
course conclude that the old lady's politi- 
cal tenets were as Jacobitical as the po- 
et's, a conformity- which contributed not 
a little to the cordiality of our reception 
and entertainment. — She gave us as her 
first toast after dinner, Awa' Uncos, or 
Away with the Strangers. — Who these 



strangers were, you will readily under- 
stand. Mrs. A. corrects me by saying it 
should be Hooi, or Hooi unco's, a sound 
used by shepherds to direct their dogs to 
drive away the sheep. 

" We returned to Edinburgh by Kin- 
ross (on the shore of Lochleven) and 
Queen's-ferry. I am inclined to think 
Burns knew nothing of poor Michael 
Bru;,*e, who was then alive at Kinross, or 
had died there a short while before. A 
meeting between the bards, or a visit to 
the deserted cottage and early grave of 
poor Bruce, would have been highly in- 
teresting.* 

" At Dunfermline we visited the ruin- 
ed abbey and the abbey church, now con- 
secrated to Presbyterian worship. Here 
I mounted the cutty stool, or stool of re- 
pentance, assuming the character of a 
penitent for fornication ; while Burns from 
the pulpit addressed to me a ludicrous re- 
proof and exhortation, parodied from that 
which had been delivered to himself in 
Ayrshire, where he had, as he assured 
me, once been one of seven wlio mounted 
the seat of shame together. 

" In the church-yard two broad flag- 
stones marked the grave of Robert Bruce, 
for whose memory Burns had more than 
common veneration. He knelt and kiss- 
ed the stone with sacred fervour, and 
heartily [suus ut mos erat) execrated the 
worse than Gothic neglect of the first ot 
Scottish heroes."! 



The surprise expressed by Dr. Adair, 
in his excellent letter, that the romantic, 
scenery of the Devon should have failed 
to call forth any exertion of the poet's 
muse, is not in its nature singular ; and 
the disappointment felt at his not express- 
ing in more glowing language his emo- 
tions on the sight of the famous cataract 
of that river, is similar to what was felt 
by the friends of Burns on other occa- 
sions of the same nature. Yet the infer- 
ence that Dr. Adair seems inclined to 
draw from it, that he had little taste for 
the picturesque, might be questioned, 
even if it stood uncontroverted by other 
evidence. The muse of Burns was in a 
high degree capricious ; she came uncall 

* Bruce died some years before. E. 
t Extracted from a letter of Dr. Adair to the Editor 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



47 



ed, and often refused to attend at his bid- 
ding. Ot all the numerous subjects sug- 
gested to oim by his friends and corres- 
pondents, tiSerc is scarce!*/^ one that he 
adopted Tne A'ery expectation that a 
particular ocoHsion would excite the en- 
ergies of fancy, ii"v-ommunicated to Burns, 
seemed in him as in other poets, destruc- 
tive of the effect txrected. Hence per- 
haps may be explahiod, why the banks of 
the Devon and of the Tweed form no part 
of the subjects of his song. 

A similar train of reasoning may per- 
haps explain the w»>iit of emotion with 
which he viewed the Caldron Linn. Cer- 
tainly there are no affections of the mind 
more deb,dened by the influence of pre- 
vious expectation, than those arising from 
the sight of natural objects, and more 
especially of objects of grandeur. Minute 
descriptions of scenes, of a sublime na- 
ture, should never be given to those who 
are about to view them, particularly if 
they are persons of great strength and 
sensibility of imagination. Language sel- 
dom or never conveys an adequate idea of 
such objects, but in the mind of a great 
poet it may excite a picture that far tran- 
scends them. The imagination of Burns 
might form a cataract, in comparison with 
which the Caldron Linn should seem the 
purling of a rill, and even the mighty falls 
of Niagara, an humble cascade.* 

Whether these suggestions may assist 
in explaining our Bard's deficiency of im- 
pression on the occasion referred to, or 
whether it ought rather to be imputed to 
some pre-occupation, or indisposition of 
mind, we presume not to decide; but that 
he was in general feelingly alive to the 
beautiful or sublime in scenery, may be 
supported by irresistible evidence. It is 

* This reasoning might be extended, with some mo- 
difications, to objects of sight of every kind. To have 
formed before-hand a distinct picture in the mind, of 
any interesting person or thing, generally lessens the 
pleasure of ilie first meeting with them. Though this 
picture be not superior, or even equal to the realty, still 
it can never be expecteil to be an exact resemblance ; 
and the disappointment felt at findi-ng the object some- 
thing ditfeienl from what was expected, interrupts and 
diminishes the emotions that would otherwise be pro 
duced. In such cases the second or third interview 
gives more pleasure than the first-— See the Elements 
of the F.'iilosiip'uf of the Unman .Mind, by Mr. Stew- 
art, p. 4i4. Sucii publications as The Guide to the 
Lakes, where every scene is described in the most mi 
nuie manner, and souietinies with con.^iderable exag- 
geration of language, are in this point of view objcc- 
tioiiaole. 



true this pleasure was greatly heighten- 
ed in his mind, as might be expected, 
when combined with moral emotions of a 
kind with which it happily unites. That 
under this association Burns contemplated 
the scenery of the Devon with the eye of 
a genuine poet, some lines which he wrote 
at this very period, may bear witness.* 

The different journeys already men- 
tioned did not satisfy the curiosity of 
Burns. About the beginning of Septem- 
ber, he again set out from Edinburgh on 
a more extended tour to the Highlands, 
in company with Mr. Nicol, with whom 
he had now contracted a particular inti- 
macy, which lasted during the remainder 
of his life. Mr. Nicol was of Dumfries- 
shire, of a descent equally humble with 
our poet. Like him he rose by the 
strength of his talents, and fell by the 
strength of his passions. He died in the 
summer of 1 797. Having received the 
elements of a classical instruction at his 
parish-school, Mr. Nicol made a very ra- 
pid and singular proficiency ; and by early 
undertaking the office of an instructor 
himself, he acquired the means of enter- 
ing himself at the University of Edin- 
burgh. There he was first a student of 
theology, then a student of medicine, and 
was afterwards employed in the assist- 
ance and instruction of graduates in me- 
dicine, in those parts of their exercises in 
which the Latin language is employed 
In this situation he was the contempora 
ry and rival of the celebrated Dr. Brown, 
whom he resembled in the particulars of 
his history, as well as in the leading fea- 
tures of his character. The office of as- 
sistant-teacher in the High-school being 
vacant, it was, as usual, filled up by com- 
petition ; and in the face of some preju- 
dices, and, perhaps, of some well-founded 
objections, Mr. Nicol, by superior learn- 
ing, carried it from all the other candi- 
dates. This office he filled at the period 
of which we speak. 

It is to be lamented that an acquaint- 
ance with the writers of Greece and Rome 
does not always supply an original want 
of taste and correctness in manners and 
conduct; and where it fails of this effect, 
it sometimes inflames the native pride of 
temper, which treats vviih disdain those 
delicacies in which it has not learned to 

* See the song beginmng, 
" How pleasant the banks of the clear winding Uevou.' 
Poems, page 78. 



48 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



excel It was thus with the fellow-tra- 
vellei of Burns. Formed by nature in a 
model of great strengtli, neither liis per- 
son nor his manners had any tincture of 
taste or elegance ; and his coarseness was 
not compensated by that romantic sensi- 
bility, and those towering flights of ima- 
gination which distinguished the conver- 
sation of Burns, in the blaze of whose ge- 
nius all the deficiencies of his manners 
were absorbed and disappeared. 

Mr. Nicol and our poet travelled in a 
postcliaise, which they engaged for the 
journey, and passing through the heart 
of the Highlands, streN hed northwards, 
about ten miles beyond Inverness. There 
they bent their course eastward, across 
the island, and returned by the shore of 
the German sea to Edinburgh. In the 
course of this tour, some particulars of 
which will be found in a letter of our bard, 
No. XXX. they visited a number of re- 
markable scenes, and the imagination of 
Burns was constantly excited by the wild 
and sublime scenery through which he 
passed. Of this several proofs may be 
found in the poems formerly printed.* 
Of the history of one of these p>oems. The 
Humble Petition of Bruar Water, and of 
the bard's visit to A thole House, some 
particulars will be found in No. XXIX ; 
and by the favour of Mr. Walker of Perth, 
then residing in the family of the Duke 
of Athole, we arc enabled to give the fol- 
lowing additional account : 

" On reaching Blair, he sent me notice 
of his arrival (as I had been previously 
acquainted with him,) and I hastened to 
meet him at the inn. The Duke to whom 
ne brought a letter of introduction was 
from home ; but the Dutchess, being in- 
formed of his arrival, gave him an invita- 
tion to sup and sleep at Athole House. 
He accepted the invitation ; but as the 
hour of supper was at some distance, 
begged I would in the interval be his 
guide through the grounds. It was al- 
ready growing dark ; yet the softened 
though faint and uncertain view of their 
beauties, which the moonlight afforded us, 
seemed exactly suited to the state of his 
feelings at the time. I had often, like 
others, experienced the pleasures which 

* See " I.iiipa on scarins; snirie water fowl in Locli- 
Tiirit, a wild scono aiiiong the hills of Ocliteityre." 
" Lin(N« written with i' Pencil over the Chimney-piece, 
In the Inn at Kenrnore, Tayinonth." " Lines written 
with a pencil standing hy the fall of Fyers, near Loch- 
oess " 



arise from the sublime or elegant land 
scape, but I never saw those feelings so 
intense as in Burns. When we reached 
a rustic hut on the river Tilt, where it is 
overhung by a woody precipice, from 
which there is a noble water-fall, he 
threw himself on the heathy seat, and 
gave himself up to a tender, abstracted, 
and voluptuous enthusiasm of imagina- 
tion. I cannot help thinking it might have 
been here that he conceived the idea of 
the following lines, which he afterwards 
introduced into his poem on Bruar Wa- 
ter, when only fancying such a combina- 
tion of objects as were now present to 
his eye. 

Or, by the reaper's nightly beam, 
Mild, chequering through the trees, 

Rave to my darkly-dashing stream, 
Hoarse-swelling on the breeze. 

" It was with much difficulty I prevail- 
ed on him to quit this spot, and to be in- 
troduced in proper time to supper. 

" My curiosity was great to see how 
he would conduct himself in company so 
different from what he had been accus- 
tomed to.* His manner was unembar- 
rassed, plain, and firm. He appeared to 
have complete reliance on his own native 
good sense for directing his behaviour. 
He seemed at once to perceive and to ap- 
preciate what was due to the company 
and to himself, and never to forget a pro- 
per respect for the separate species of 
dignity belonging to each. He did not 
arrogate conversation, but, when led into 
it, he spoke with ease, propriety, and 
manliness. He tried to exert his abilities, 
because he knew it was ability alone gave 
him a title to be there. The Duke's fine 
young family attracted much of his admi- 
ration; he drank their healths as honest 
men and honny lasses, an idea which was 
much applauded by the company, and 
with which he very felicitously closed his 
poem.f 

" Next day I took a ride with hira 
through some of the most romantic parts 
of that neighbourhood, and was highly 
gratified by his conversation. As a spe- 
cimen of his happiness of conception and 
strength of expression, I will mention a 

* In the preceding winter, Burns had been in com- 
pai\y of the highOBt rank in Edinburgh; but this de- 
scription of his niaimi^rs is perfectly applicable to his 
first appearance in such society. 

t Pee Tiie Humble Petition of Bruar Water. 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



4«i 



remark which he made on his fellow-tra- 
vehor, wlio was walking at the time a few 
paces before us. He was a man of a ro- 
bust but chimsy person ; and while Burns 
was expressing to me the value he enter- 
tained for him on account of his vigorous 
talents, ahnough they were clouded at 
times by coarseness of manners ; ' in 
short,' he aaried, ' his mind is like his 
body, he has a confounded strong, in- 
kneed sort of a soul.' 

" Much' attention was paid to Burns 
both before and after the Duke's return, 
of which ho was perfectly sensible, with- 
out being vam ; and at his departure I 
recommended to him, as the most appro- 
priate return he could make, to write 
some descriptive verses on any of the 
scenes with which he had been so much 
delighted. After leaving Blair, he, by 
the Duke's advice, visited the Falls of 
Bruar, and in a few days I received a 
letter from Inverness, with the verses en- 
closed."* 

It appears that the impression made by 
our poet on the noble family of Athole, 
was in a high degree favourable ; it is 
certain he was charmed with the recep- 
tion he received from them, and he often 
mentioned the two days he spent at Athole 
House as amongst the happiest of his life. 
He was warmly invited to prolong his 
stay, but sacrificed his inclinations to his 
engagement with Mr. Nicol ; which is 
the more to be regretted, as he would 
otherwise have been introduced to Mr. 
Dundas (then daily expected on a visit to 
the Duke,) a circumstance which might 
have had a favourable influence on Burns's 
future fortunes. At Athole House he 
met, for the first time, Mr. Graham of 
Fintry, to whom he was afterwards in- 
debted for his office in the Excise. 

The letters and poems which he ad- 
dressed to Mr. Graham, bear testimony 
of his sensibility, and justify the supposi- 
tion, that he would not have been defi- 
cient in gratitude had he been elevated 
to a situation better suited to his disposi- 
tion and to his talents. f 

A few days after leaving Blair of Athole, 
our poet and his fellow-traveller arrived 

* Extract of a letter from Mr. Walker to Mr. Cun- 
ninsham. See Letter, No. XXIX. 

t See the fust Epistle, to Mr. Graham, soliciting an 
employment in the Excise, letter No. L.V1. and his 
serojtd Epistle, Poems p. 65. 



at Fochabers. In the course of the pre- 
ceding winter Burns had been introduced 
to the Dutciiess of Gordon at Edinburgh, 
and presuming on this acquaintance, he 
proceeded to Gordon-Castle, leaving Mr. 
Nicol at the inn in the village. At the 
castle our poet was received with the ut- 
most hospitality and kuidness, and tho 
family being about to sit down to dinner, 
he was invited to take his place at table 
as a matter of course. This hivitation 
he accepted, and after drinking a few 
glasses of wine, he rose up, and proposed 
to withdraw. On being pressed to stay, 
he mentioned for the first time, his en- 
gagement with his fellow-traveller : and 
his noble host ofl^ering to send a servant 
to conduct Mr. Nicol to the castle. Burns 
insisted on undertaking that office him- 
self. He was, however, accompanied by 
a gentleman, a particular acquaintance of 
the Duke, by whom the invitation was 
delivered in all the forms of politeness. 
The invitation came too late ; the pride 
of Nicol was inflamed into a high degree 
of passion, by the neglect which he had 
already suffered. He had ordered the 
horses to be put to the carriage, being 
determined to proceed on hi- journey 
alone ; and they found him parading the 
streets of Fochabers, before the door of 
the inn, venting his anger on the postil- 
hon, for the slowness with which he obey- 
ed his commands. As no explan-ation nor 
entreaty could change the purpose of his 
fellow-traveller, our poet was reduced to 
the necessity of separating from him en- 
tirely, or of instantly proceeding with 
him on their journey. He chose the last 
of these alternatives ; and seating him- 
self beside Nicol in the post-chaise with 
mortification and regret, he turned his 
back on Gordon Castle where he had 
promised himself some happy days. Sen- 
sible, however, of the great kindness of 
the noble family, he made the best return 
in his power, by the poem beginning, 

" Streams that glide in orient plains."* 

Burns remained at Edinburgh dunng 
the greater part of the winter, 1787-8, 
and again entered into the society and 
dissipation of that metropolis. It appears 
that on the 31st day of December, he at- 
tended a meeting to celebrate the birth- 
day of the lineal descendant of the Scot- 
tish race of kings, the late unfortunate 
Prince Charles Edward. Whatever 

* This information is extracted from a letter of Dr 
Couper of Fochiibers, to the Editor. 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



might have been the wish or purpose of 
the original institutors of tliis annual 
meeting, there is no reason to suppose 
that tlie gentlemen of whom it was at 
:his time composed, were not perfectly 
joyal to the King on the throne. It is 
not to he conceived that they entertained 
any hope of, any wish for, the restoration 
of the House of Stuart ; but, over their 
Bparkling wine, they indulged the gene- 
rous feelings which the recollection of 
fallen greatness is calculated to inspire ; 
and commemorated the heroic valour 
which strove to sustain it in vain — valour 
worthy of a nobler cause, and a happier 
fortune. On this occasion our bard took 
upon himself tiic office of poet -laureate, 
and produced an ode, which though de- 
ficient in the complicated rliythm and 
polished versification that such composi- 
tions require, might on a fair competition, 
where energy of feelings and of expression 
were alone in question, have won the 
butt of Malmsey from the real laureate 
of that day. 

The following extracts may serve as a 
epecimen : 



* 
* * 



* * 
* * 



False flatlerer, Hope, away! 
Nor think to lure us as in days of yore • 

V\ e sioleninize this sorrowing nalal day, 
To prove our loyal truth — wo can no more: 

And, owning Heaven's mysterious sway, 
Submissive, low, adore. 

Yo honoured, mighty dead ! 
Who nobly perished iii the ijlorious cause, 
Your King, your country, and her laws! 

From great Dundee, who smiling victory led, 
And Cell a martyr in her arms, 
(What breast ofnortliern ice but warms?) 

To bold l!aliU(!rino's undying name, 

Whose soul ot'fire, lighted at Ileaven'shigh flame. 
Deserves the proudest wreath departed heroes claim. * 

Nor unrevenged your fate shall be, 

It only lags the fatal hour ; 
Your blood shall with incessant cry 

Awake at last the unsparing power. 
As from the cliff, with thundering course, 

The snowy ruin smokes along, 
With doubling speed ami gathering force, 
Till deep it crashing wIkIuis the cottage in the vale •' 
Bo Vengeance * * * 

• In the (Irst part of this ode there is some boantiful 
Imagery, which the poet afterwards interwove in a 
happier manner in the Cheihtlier's Lament. (See Letter, 
No. \jW.) But if there were no other reasons for 
omlttiuL' to print the entire poem, the want of originali- 
ty would be sulficieut. A considerable part of it is a 



In relating the incidents of our poet's 
life in Edinbuigh, we ought to have men- 
tioned the sentiments of respect and sym- 
pathy with which he traced out the grave 
of his predecessor Ferguson, over whose 
ashes in the Canongate church-yard, he 
obtained leave to erect an humble monu- 
ment, which will be viewed by reflecting 
minds with no common interest, and 
which will awake in the bosom of kindred 
genius, many a high emotion.* Neither 
should we pass over the continued friend- 
ship he experienced from a poet then liv- 
ing, the amiable and accomplished Black- 
lock. — To his encouraging advice it was 
owing (as has already appeared) that 
Burns instead of emigrating to the West 
Indies, repaired to Edinburgh. lie re- 
ceived him there with all the ardour of 
aflectionate admiration ; he eagerly in- 
troduced him to the respectable circle of 
his friends ; he consulted his interest ; 
he blazoned his fame ; he lavished upon 
him all the kindness of a generous and 
feeling heart, into which nothing selfish 
or envious ever found admittance. Among 
the friends to whom he introduced Burns 
was Mr. Ramsay of Ochtertyre, to whom 
our poet paid a visit in tlie Autumn of 
1787, at his delightful retirement in the 
neighbourhood of Stirling, and on the 
banks of the Teith. Of this visit we have 
the following particulars : 

" I have been in the company of many 
men of genius," says Mr. Ramsay, " some 
of them poets; but never witnessed such 
flashes of intellectutil brightness as from 
him, the impulse of the moment, sparks 
of celestial fire ! I never was more de- 
lighted, therefore, than with his company 
for two days, tete-a-tete. In a mixed 
company I should have made little of him ; 
for, in the gamester's phrase, he did not 
always know when to play oft' and when 
to piny on. * * * I not only proposed to 
him the writing of a play similar to the 
Gentle Sheplierd, qrutlem de( et esse soro- 
rem, but Scottish Genri:,-irs a subject which 
Thomson has by no means exhausted in 
his Seasons. What' beautiful landscapes 
of rural life and manners might not have 
been expected from a pencil so faithful 
and forcible as his, which could have ex- 
hibited scenes as familiar and interesting 
as those in the Gentle Shepherd, which 

kind of rant, for which indeed precedent may be cited 
in various oili.r binh-day, odes, but with which it JB 
impossible lo go along. 

* .^ee Letters No XI.X. and XX. where the Epi!Ry.h 
will be found, &c 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



51 



every ono who knows our swains in their 
unadulterated state, instantly recoj^nisos 
as true to nature. But to have executed 
either of these plans, steadiness and ab- 
Ftraction from company were wanting-, 
not talents. When I asked him whether 
the Edinhnrfrh Literati had mended his 
poems by their criticisms, ' Sir,' said he, 
' these pontlemen remind mo of some spin- 
sters in my country, who spin their thread 
so fine tJiat it is neither lit for weft nor 
woof.' He said he had not charged a 
word except one to please Dr. Blair."* 

Having settled with his publisher, IMr. 
Creech, in February, 1788, Burns found 
himself master of nearly five hundred 
pounds, after discharging all his expenses. 
Two hundred pounds he immediately ad- 
vanced to his brother Gilbert, who had 
taken upon himself the support of their 
aged mother, and was struggling with 
many ditliculties in the farm of Mossgiel. 
With the remainder of this sum, and 
some farther eventful .profits from his 
poems, he determined on settling him- 
self for life in the occupation of agricul- 
ture, and took from Mr. Miller, of Dal- 
Bwinton, the farm of Ellisland, on the 
banks of the river Nith, six miles above 
Dumfries, on which he entered at Whit- 
sunday, 1788. Having been previously 
recommended to the Board of Excise, his 
name had been put on the list of candi- 
dates for the humble office of a ganger or 
exciseman ; and he immediately applied 
to acquiring the information necessary 
for filling that office, when the honoura- 
ble Board might judge it proper to employ 
him. He expected to be called into ser- 
vice in the district in which his farm was 
situated, and vainly hoped to unite with 
success the labours of the farmer with the 
duties of the exciseman. 

When Burns had in this manner ar- 
ranged his plans for futurity, his generous 
hejrt turned to the object of his most ar- 
dent attachmpnt, and listening to no con- 
sulorations but those of honour and affec- 
tum, he joined with her in a public decla- 
ration of marriage, thus legalizing their 
union, and lendering it permanent for 
life. 

* Extract of a Utter from Mr. Rnmnny In th" Eilitnr- 
This incnrripibility of liiiriis pxteniipd, however, only 
to his poems primed before lie arrived in Edlribnrjrh; 
for in retrard lo liis iiiipiiMishrd poems, lie was aiuena- 
.lle to criticism, of wlileli ninny pioofs mifiht be given. 
Bco some remarks on tliis subjeet , in the Jippmdiz. 



Before Burns was known in Edinburgh, 
a specimen of his poetry had recommend- 
ed him to Mr. Miller of Dalswinton. Un- 
derstanding tlhat he intended to resume 
the life of a farmer, Mr. Miller had in- 
vited him, in the spring of 1787, to view 
his estate in Nithsdale, offering him at 
the same time the choice of any of his 
farms out of lease, at such a rent as Burns 
and his friends might judge proper. It 
was not in the nature of Burns to take an 
undue advantage of the liberality of Mr. 
Miller. He proceeded in this business, 
however, with more than usual delibera- 
tion. Having made choice of the farm of 
Ellisland, he employed two of his friends, 
skilled in the value of land, to examine it, 
and with their approbation offered a rent 
to Mr. Miller, which was immediately 
accepted. It was not convenient for Mrs. 
Burns to remove immediately from Ayr- 
shire, and our poet therefore took up liis 
residence alone at Ellisland, to prepare 
for the reception of his wife and children, 
who joined him towards the end of the 
year. 

The situation in which Burns now 
found himself was calculated to awaken 
reflection. The different steps he had of 
late taken were in their nature highly im- 
portant, and might be said to have in some 
measure, fixed his destiny. He had be- 
come a husband and a father ; he had en- 
gaged in the management of a considera- 
ble farm, a difficult and laborious under- 
taking ; in his success the happiness of 
his family was involved ; it was time, 
therefore, to abandon the gayety and dis- 
sipation of which he had been too much 
enamoured ; to ponder seriously on the 
past, and to form virtuous resolutions re- 
specting the future. That such was ac- 
tually the state of his mind, the following 
extract from his common-place book may 
bear witness : 

EUisIaml, Sunday, \Ath June, 1788. 
" This is now the tliird day that I have 
been in this coimtry. ' Lord, what is 
man !' W^hat a bustling little bundle of 
passions, appetites, ideas, and fancies ! 
and what a capricious kind of existence 
he has here ' * * * There is indeed an 
elsewhere, where, as Thomson says, mr- 
tue sole survives. 

' Tell us ye dead 
Will none rf you tn pity disclose the secret 
What 'tis you are, and vv(! must shortly be t 

A little time 

Will make us wise as you are and a; cUw^i ' 



5? 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



" I am Bucli a cowsrd in life, so tired of 
the service, that 1 woiihl ahiiost at any 
time, with Milton's Adam, ' ji'^adly lay me 
in my motlier's lap, and be at peace.' 

" But a wife and children hind mo to 
stvnp-(,rlo witii the stream, till some sud- 
den s(|uall shall overset the silly vessel ; 
or in the listless return of years, its own 
cra/.iness reduce it to a wreck. Farewell 
now to those jriddy follies, those varnish- 
ed vices, which, I houg^h half-sanctitied by 
the bowitchinp- levity of wit and humour, 
are at best but thriftless idlinjx with the 
precious current of existence; nay, otlen 
poisoning the whcde, that, like the plains 
of .Tericho, Ike loater is nouf:;hl, and the 
p;roHnd harrrn, and nothino^ short of a 
snpwuatnrally (jifted EUsha can ever af- 
ter heal the evils. 

" Wedlock, the circumstance that buc- 
kles me hardest to care, if virtue and re- 
ligcion were to be any thinor with me but 
names, was what in a few seasons I must 
have resolved on ; in my present situation 
it was absolutely necessary. Humanity, 
generosity, honest pride of character, jus- 
tice to my own hapi)mess for after-life, so 
far as it could depend (wiiich it surely will 
a fifroat deal) on internal peace; all these 
joined their warmest suifracfcs, their most 
powerful solicitations, with a rooted at- 
tachment, to urg-e the stop I have taken. 
Nor have I any reason on her part to re- 
pent it. I can fancy how, but have never 
Been wiiere, I rould have made a better 
choice. Come, then, let me act up to my 
favourite motto, that glorious passage in 
Young — 

" On reason build resolve, 
That column of true majesty in man !" 

Under the impulse of these reflections, 
Burns immediately engaged in rebuilding 
the dwelling-house on his farm, which, in 
the state he found it, was inadequate to 
the accommodation of his family. On this 
occasion, he himself resumed at times the 
occupation of a labourer, and found nei- 
ther his strength nor his skill impaired. 
Pleased with surveying the grounds he 
was about to cultivate, and with the roar- 
"ig of a building that shoidd give shelter 
to his wife and ciiildrrn, and, as he fond- 
ly hoped, to his own gray hairs, senti- 
ments of independence buoyed up his 
mind, pictures of domestic content and 
pence rose on his imagination; and a few 
days passed away, as he himself infornjs 



us, the most tranquil, if not the happiest, 
which he had ever experienced.* 

It is to be lamented that at this critical 
period of his life, our poet was without 
the society of his wife and children. A 
great ciiaiige had taken place in his situa- 
tion ; his old hai)its were broken ; and 
tile new circumstances in which he was 
placed were calculated to give a new di- 
rection to his thoughts and conduct. f But 
his application to the cares and labours 
of his iiirm was interrupted by several 
visits to his family in Ayrshire; and as 
the distance was too great for a single 
day's journey, he generally spent a night 
at an iim on the road. On such occasions 
he sometimes fell into company, and for- 
got the resolutions he had formed. In a 
little while temptation assailed him nearer 
home. 

Ilis fame naturally drew upon him the 
attention of his neighbmn's, ami lie soon 
formeil a general acquaintance in the dis- 
trict in wliicli he lived. The public voice 
had now pronounced on the subject of his 
talents; the reception he had metwitli in 
Edinburgh had given him the currency 
which fashion bestows, he had surmount- 
ed the prejudices arising from hishumblo 
birth, and he was received at the table o\ 
the gentlemen of Nithsdale with welcome, 
with kindness, and even with respect. 
Their social parties too often seduced him 
from his rustic labour and his rustic fare, 
overthrew the unsteady fabric of his reso- 
lutions, and inriamed those propensities 
which temperance might have weal<i>ned, 
and prudence ultimately suppressed. | It 
was not long, therefore, before Burns be- 
gan to view his farm with dislike and des- 
pondence, if not witii disgust. 

Unfortunately he had for several years 
looked to an otHce in the Excise as a cer- 
tain means of livelihood, shoidd his other 

* Aniniatfd sentiments of any kind, almost always 
ijavc rise in our poet to some proiluction of his nnisis 
His scutiuu'nts on this occasion were in part exiircssed 
by the viic«rous and characteristic, though not very 
delicate song, beginning, 

" I hae B wife o' my ain, 
I'll partake wi' nae body ;' 

t Mrs. Burns was about to be confined In child bed, 
and (lie house at Ellisland was rebuilding, 

} The poem of The Jnistlc (Poem, p. 74 ) celebrates 
a nacchanalian contest among three gentlemen of 
Nilhsdale, where niiiiis appears as umpire. l\lr. Rid- 
(Irll (lied briore our I'ard, an<l some elegiac verws to 
his memory will be found entitled. Sonnet on the dcati 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



&3 



expectations fail. As has already been 
mentioned, lie had been recommended to 
ihe Board of Excise, and had received the 
instructions necessaryfor such a situation. 
He now applied to be employed ; and by 
the interest of Mr. Graham of Fintry, was 
appointed exciseman, or, as it is vulfrarly 
called, ffautrer, of the district in whicli he 
lived. His farm was after this, in a great 
measure abandoned to servants, while he 
betook himself to the duties of his new 
appointment. 

He might, indeed, still be seen in the 
spring, directing his plough, a labour in 
which he excelled ; or with a white sheet, 
containing his seed-corn, slung across his 
shoulders, striding witii measured steps 
along his turned up furrows, and scatter- 
ing the grain m the earth. But his farm 
no longer occupied the principal part of 
his care or his thoughts. It was not at 
Ellisland that he was now in general to be 
found. Mounted on horseback, this high- 
minded poet was pursuing the defaulters 
of the revenue, among the hills and vales 
of Nithsdale, his roving eye wandering 
over the cliarms of nature, and muttering 
his wayward fancies as he moved along. 

" I had an adventure with him in the 
year 1790," says Mr. Ramsay, of Ochter- 
tyre, in a letter to the editor, " when pass- 
ing tlirough Dumfriesshire, on a tour to 
the South, with Dr. Stewart of L\iss. See- 
ing him pass quickly, near Closoburn, I 
said to my companion, ' that is Burns.' 
On coming to the inn, the hostler told us 
he would be back in a few hours to grant 
permits ; that where he met with any 
thing seizable, he was no better than any 
other gauger; in every thing else, that 
he was perfectly a gentleman. After 
leaving a note to be delivered to him 
on his return, I proceeded to his house, 
being curious to see his Jean, &c. I was 
much pleased with his uxor Sahina qua/is, 
and the poet's modest mansion, so unlike 
the habitation of ordinary rustics. In the 
evening he suddenly bounced in >ipon us, 
and said, as he entered, 1 come, to use the 
words of Shakspeare, stewed in haste. In 
fact he had ridden incredibly fast after 

of Robert lii'lddl. From liim, and from all the mem- 
bers of his family, niiriis received not kindness only, 
but friendship; and the society he mot in general at 
Friar's Carse was calculated to Improve his hahirs as 
well as his manners. Mr. Fergnsson o' Craigdarroch, 
so well known for his eloquence and social talents, 
died soon after our poet. Sir Robert Laurie, the third 
person in the drama, survives, and has since been en- 
pngcd in a contest of a bloodier nature. Long may he 
'4VC to light the battles of liis country ! (17<J0.) 



receiving my note. We fell into conver 
sation directly, and soon got into the mare 
mfignum of poetry. He told me that he 
had now gotten a story for a Drama, which 
lie was to call Rob Macqucchan's Elslion^ 
from a popular story of Robert Bruce be- 
ing defeated on the water of Cacrn, when 
the heel of his boot having loosened in hia 
flight, he applied to Robert Macquechail 
to fit it ; who, to make sure, ran his awl 
nine inches up the king's heel. We were 
now going on at a great rate, when Mr. 

S popped in his head, which put a 

stop to our discourse, which had become 
very interesting. Yet in a little while it 
was resumed ; and such was the force and 
versatility of the bard's genius, that he 

made the tears run down Mr. S 's 

cheeks, albeit unused to the poetic strain. 
* * * From that time we met no more, 
and I was grieved at the reports of him 
afterwards. Poor Burns ! we shall hardly 
ever see his like again. He was, in truth, 
a sort of comet in literature, irregular in its 
motions, which did not do good propor- 
tioned to the blaze of light it display-ed.' 

Tn the summer of 1791, two English 
gentlemen, who had before met with iiim 
in Edinburgh, paid a visit to him at Ellis- 
land. On calling at the house they were 
informed that he had walked out on the 
banks of the river; and dismounting from 
their horses, they proceeded in search of 
him. On a rock that projected into the 
stream, they saw a man employed in ang- 
ling, of a singular appearance. He had a 
cap made of a fox's skin on his head, a 
loose great coat fixed round him by a bolt, 
from which depended an enormous High- 
land broad-sword. It was Burns. He re- 
ceived them with great cordiality, and 
asked them to share his humble dinner — 
an invitation which they accepted. On 
the table they found boiled beef, with ve- 
getables, and barley-broth, after the man- 
ner of Scotland, of which they partook 
heartily. After dinner, the bard told them 
ingenuously that he had no wine to offer 
them, nothing better than Highland whis- 
key, a bottle of which Mrs. Burns set on 
the board. He produced at the same time 
his punch-bowl made of Inverary marble , 
and, mixing the spirit with water and su- 
gar, filled their glasses, and invited them 
to drink.* The travellers were in haste, 
and besides, the flavour of the whiskey to 
their «ot<</iron palates was scarcely tolera- 

* This howl was made nf the lapis ollaris, the stono 
of which Inverary- liouse is built, the mant-ion of UiO 
family of Argyle. 



64 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



ble ; but the generous poet offered them 
his best, and his ardent liospitality they 
fc ind it impossible to resist. Burns was 
in his happiest mood, and the charms of 
his conversation were altogether fascina- 
tinjT. lie ranged over a great variety of 
topics, illuminating whatever he touched. 
lie related the tales of his infancy and of 
his youth; lie recited some of the gayest 
and some of the tenderest of his poems ; 
in the wildest of his strains of mirth, he 
threw in some touches of melancholy, and 
spread around him the electric emotions 
of his powerful mind. The Highland 
whiskey improved in its flavour ; the mar- 
ble bowl was again and again emptied and 
replenished ; the guests of our poet for- 
got the flight of time, and the dictates of 
prudence : at the hour of midnight they 
lost their way in returning to Dumfries, 
and could scarcely distinguish it when as- i 
sistcd by the morning's dawn.* 

Besides his duties in the excise and his 
social pleasures, other circumstances in- 
terfered with the attention of Burns to 
his farm, lie engaged in the formation 
of a society for purchasing and circulat- 
ing books among the farmers of his neigh- 
bourhood, of which he undertook the 
management ;f and he occupied himself 
occasionally in composing songs for the 
musical work of Mr. Johnson, then in the 
course of publication. Tliese engage- 
ments, useful and honourable in them- 
selves, contributed, no doubt, to the ab- 
straction of his thoughts from the busi- 
ness of agriculture. 

The consequences may be easily ima- 
gined. Notwithstanding the uniform 
prudence and good management of Mrs. 
Burns, and though his rent was moder- 
ate and reasonable, our poet found it con- 
venient, if not Tiecessary, to resign his 
farm to Mr. Miller ; after having occu- 
pied it three years and a half. His office 
in the excise had originally produced 
about flfty pounds per annum. Having 
acquitted himself to the satisfaction of the 
board, he had been appointed to a new dis- 
trict, the emoluments of which rose to 
about seventy pounds per annum. Hoping 
to support iiimself and his family on this 
humble income lill promotion should reach 
him, he disposed of his stock and of his 
crop on Ellisland by public auction, and 
removed to a small house which he had 

• Civeii fmm tlm information of one of llie party. 
1S<;oNo LXXXVIII. 



taken in Dumfries, about the end of the 
year 1791. 

Hitherto Burns, though addicted to 
excess in social parties, had abstamed 
from the habitual use of strong liquors, 
and his constitution had not suffered any 
permanent injury from the irregularities 
of his conduct. In Dumfries, temptation? 
to the sin that so easily beset him, continu- 
ally presented themselves ; and his irregu 
larities grew by degrees into habits 
These temptations uniinppily occurred 
during his engagements in the biisincs9 
of his office, as well as during his hours 
of relaxation ; and though he clearly fore- 
saw the consequences of yielding to them, 
his appetites and sensations, which could 
not prevent the dictates of his judgment, 
finally triumphed over the powers of his 
will. Yet this victory was not obtained 
wiihout many obstinate struggles, and at 
times temperance and virtue seemed to 
have obtained the mastery. Besides hia 
engagements in the excise, and the so- 
ciety into which they led, many circum- 
stances contributed to the melancholy 
fate of Burns. His great celebrity made 
him an object of interest and curiosity ti 
strangers, and few persons of cultivated 
minds passed througii Dumfries without 
attempting to see our poet, and to enjoy 
the pleasure of his conversation. As he 
could not receive them under his own 
humble roof, these interviews passed at 
the inns of the town, and often terminated 
in those excesses which Burns sometimes 
provoked, and was seldom able to resist. 
And among the inhabitants of Dumfries 
and its vicinity, there were never want- 
ing persons to share his social pleasures ; 
to lead or accompany him to the tavern ; 
to partake in the wildest sallies of his wit ; 
to witness the strength and the degrada- 
tion of his genius. 

Still, however, he cultivated the society 
of persons of taste and of respectability, 
and in their company could impose on him- 
self the restraints of temperance and deco- 
rum. Nor was his muse dormant. In 
tlie four years which he lived in Dumfries, 
he produced many of his beautiful lyrics, 
though it does not appear that he at- 
tem])ted any poem of considerable length. 
During this time he made several excur- 
sions into the neighbouring country, of 
one of which, through Calloway, an ac- 
count is preserved in a letter of INIr. Syme, 
written sonn after; which, as it gives au 
animated picture of him by a correct ar.d 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



masterly hand, we sliall present to the 
reailer. 

" I got Burns a gray Ilifjliland Khelty 
to ride on. We dined the first day, 27th 
.Tilly, 17'J3, at Glendenwynesori'arton ! a 
bi'iiutitul situation on the banks of the Dee. 
In tlie evening we walked out, and ascend- 
ed a gentle eminence, from which we had 
as tine a view of Alpine scenery as can well 
be imagined. A delightful soft evening 
showed all its wilder as well as its grander 
graces. Immediately opposite, and with- 
in a mile of us, we saw Airds, a charming 
romantic place, where dwelt Low, the 
author of Mary weep no more for mc.-*'- 
This was classical ground for Burns. lie 
viewed " the highest hill which rises o'er 
the source of Dee ;" and would have staid 
till " the passing spirit," had appeared, 
had we not resolved to reach Kenmore 
that night. We arrived as Mr. and Mrs. 
Gordon were sitting down to supper. 

" Here is a genuine baron's seat. The 
castle, an old building, stands on a large 
natural moat. In front, the river Ken 
winds for several miles through the most 
fertile and beautiful ko(m^\ till it expands 
into a lake twelve miles long, the banks 
of which, on the south, present a fine and 
soft landscape of green knolls, natural 
wood, and here and there a gray rock. 
On the north, the aspect is great, wild, 
and, I may say, tremendous. In short, I 
can scarcely conceive a scene more ter- 
ribly romantic than the castle of Ken- 
more. Burns thinks so highly of it, that 
he meditates a description of it in poetry. 
Indeed, I believe he has begun the work. 
We spent three days with Mr. Gordon, 
whose polished hospitality is of an origi- 
nal and endearing kind. Mrs. Gordon's 
lap-dog, Echo, was dead. She would 
have an epitaph for him. Several had 
been made. Burns was asked for one. 
This was setting Hercules to his distaft*. 
He disliked the subject ; but to please the 

* A beautiful and well-known ballad, which begins 
tliue — 

"The moon had climbed the hit'hcst hill, 
Whxh rises o'er the source of Dee, 

And, from the eastern summit, shed 
Its silver light on tower and tree. 

t The level low ground on the banks of a river or 
stream. This word should he adopted from the Scot- 
tish, as, indeed ought several others of the same na- 
ture That dialect is singularly copious and exact in 
Uic dcnoininatious of natural objects. £■ 



lady he would try. 
duced 



55 

Here is what he pro- 



" In wood and wild, ye warbling throng, 

Your heavy lossdei)lore ! 
Now half extinct your powers of song, 

Sweet Echo is no more. 

Ve jarring screeching things aroud, 

Scream your discordant joys ! 
Now half your din of tuneless song 
With Echo silent lies." 

" We left Kenmore, and went to Gate- 
house, I took him the moor-road, where 
savage and desolate regions extended 
wide around. The sky was sympathetic 
with the wretchedness of the soil ; it be- 
came lowering and dark. The hollow 
winds sighed, the lightnings gleamed, the 
thunder rolled. The poet enjoyed the 
awful scene — he spoke not a word, but 
seemed wrapt in meditation. In a little 
while the rain began to fall ; it poured 
in floods upon us. For three hours did the 
wild elements rumble their belly full upon 
our defenceless heads. Oh ! Oh ! 'twas 
foul. We got utterly wet ; and to re- 
venge ourselves Burns insisted at Gate- 
house on our getting utterly drunk. 

" From Gatehouse, we went next day 
to Kirkcudbright, through a fine country. 
But here I must tell you that Burns had 
got a pair of j>?nmy boots for the journey, 
which had been thoroughly wet, and which 
had been dried in such manner that it 
was not j)ossible to get them on again. 
The brawny poet tried force, and tore 
them to shreds. A whiffling vexation ot 
this sort is more trying to the temper than 
a serious calamity. We were going to St. 
Mary's Isle, the seat of the Earl of Selkirk, 
and the forlorn Burns was discomfited at 
the thought of his ruined boots. A sick 
stomach, and a head-ache, lent their aid, 
and the man of verse was quite accable. 
I attempted to reason with him. Mercy 
on us ! how he did fume with rage ! No- 
thing could reinstate him in temper. I 
tried various expedients, and at last hit 
on one that succeeded. I showed him 
the house of * * *, across the bay ol 
Wigton. Against * * *, with whom 
he was offended, he expectorated his 
spleen, and regained a most agreeable 
temper. He was in a most epigrammatic 
humour indeed ! He afterwards fell on 
humbler game. There is one * * •♦ 
whom he does not love. He had it pass- 
ino- blow at him 



56 



TIIK LIFE OP BURNS. 



" Wlinn , (liTcttsoiI, to tlio Jovll went 4l<)\vii, 

"I'wiiH iintliiiiK wuiiltl servo litiii but ^Suuui'd own 

ciowii ; 
Thy fool's lirml, (HU)lli Sutiin, tlint crown slinll wear 

never, 
I L'rnnt tlioii'rt iia wicked, liiil not iiuileso elevcr." 

" Woll, I !un 1o biiiio- you to Kirkcud- 
briolit iil<)ii;if wil li our poet, without boots. 
I ciU'rioil till' toru ruius ticrost! uiy sadillc 
Ml sjiilo of liis I'uliniuiitious, nud in ron- 
ti^uipt ofapiioaraucos ; and what is moro, 
liord SolUirk oarviod (liom in his coaoii 
to DuMitVios. Ho insicilod thoy wore 
wurtii uu'iidiii!;. 

" \Vi' rcaiduMl Kirkcudlirioiit aboutoiu* 
o'clock. I had proniisod tliiit wo shouhl 
ilino witli Olio of tiio first mon in our 
country, .1. Dal/,(dl. ]?ut IJiirns was in a 
wiltl obstropcrous humour, and sworo Iio 
would not dine whom ho shouUl be niidor 
tho smaUost rostraint. Wo provail(>d, 
(liorofort>, on I\Ir. Dal/.oll to dino with us 
in tlio inn, and had a vory nofrooablo party. 
In tho tnouiuer wo sot out for St. Mary's 
Islo. Uobort had not abs(dutoly roijainod 
tho iiiilkiuoss of jrood (oiii))or, and it oc- 
(Mirrod onoo or Iwico to liim, as ho rodo 
nloiifr, tliat St. Mary's IsU' was tho soat 
of a Ijord ; y(>t tliat liOrd was not nn aris- 
torrnt, at loast in tho sonso of tho word. 
Wo arrivod about cisjht o'clock, as tho 
family wore; at toa and ootV(H\ St. Ma- 
ry's Islo is ono of tlii^ most dolio;hlful 
placivs that can, in my opinion, bo formod 
by tho assomblaofo of ovimt soft, but not 
tamo objoct which ooustituft^s natural and 
cultivatod beauty. l?nt not to dwell on 
its external orraees, lot mo tell yon that 
we found all tlio ladies of the family (all 
beautiful) at lioino, and some strani>(<rs ; 
and amouor others who but Urbaui ! Tiie 
Italian sunjj ns many Scottish sonjvs, ac- 
companied with instrumental music. 'VUo 
two youiief ladit*s of Selkirk sunof also. 
AVe iiad thesonofof TiOrd Cres^ory, which 
I asked for, to have an opportunity of 
calliiiof on IJurns to recite his ballad to 
that tune. He did recite it; and such 
was tho otVect that a dead silence ensued. 
It was such a silence as a mind of feel- 
iii<T naturally pn^servos wIumi it is touched 
with that entlmsiasm wiiich banislies 
every otiier thousfitt but the contemjila- 
tion and indnisjence of the sympatiiy pro- 
duced. Bnnis's //<)>•(/ (Jrr^'or// is. in m\ 
opinion, a most beautiful and atVectinp; 
ballad. The fastidious critic may per- 
liai>s say sonu^ of tiie stMitiiiuMits and im- 
a.o;ery are of too elevated a kind for sucli 
a stylo of composition ; for instance, 



" Thou bolt of heaven that passost by ." 
and " Ye, mnsterino; thunder," dtc; hut 
tliia is a cold-blooded objection, whicn 
will bo saiti rather than_/(7/. 

" Wo cnjoyiMl a most happy (>viMiin<rat 
Ii(n-d Selkirk's. W'e had, in every s(M1so 
of tho word, a feast, in whicli our minds 
and our sens(>s were equally {jratititnl. 
'I'he poet was dehj^iited with his comiiauy, 
and accpiittod iiimself to ailmiration. 'J'ho 
lion that had raj^tul so violently in tho 
morniuer, was now as mild and ijftMitle as 
a lamb. Next day wo returneii to num- 
fri(>s, and so ends our poroixrinntion. I 
told yon, that in the midst of tlui storm, 
on the wilds of Kenmore, Burns was rapt 
in inpditation. What do you think ho 
was about ? lli^ was charirino^ the Kng- 
lish army akuigr with l?ruce, at Hannock- 
burn. Ho was iMieraercd in the same man- 
ner on our ride 1iom(> from St. Mary's 
Isle, and 1 did not disturb him. N(>xt 
day lu> lu-oducod mo tho foliowinsx address 
of Bruce to his troops, and gave me a 
copy for DalzcU." 

" f'eotswiiii line \vi' Wallace l)liil," &c. 

Burns had entertained hopes of pro- 
motion in tho excise ; but circumstancea 
occurred which retarded their fultilmont, 
and which in his own mind, destroyed all 
expectation of their beinjj over fullilled. 
The extraordinary events which ushered 
in tho revolution of France, interested 
the teelinors, and excited tho hopes of 
mon in every corner of Europe. Preju- 
dice and tyranny seemed about to disup- 
pear from amoiiij men, and the day-star 
of reason to ris(> upon a beuiohted woi!d. 
In the dawn of this beautilul morniniT, 
the prenius of French freedom api)eared 
on our southern hori/on willi the coun- 
tenance of an aniTol, but speiMlily assum- 
(mI tho features of a demon, and \anished 
in a siiower ol" blood. 

Thouofh ])reviously a Jacobite and a 
cavalitM-, Hurns had shared in the orio-inal 
hopes entertained of this astonishinjr re- 
volution, by ardent and l)enevolt<nt minds. 
The novelty and the hazard of tho at- 
tempt n\editated by the First, or Con- 
st it uiMit Assembly, served rather, it is 
pridiablo, to recommend it to liis darinj,' 
temper ; and the nnfetti^rcd scope pro- 
posed to bt> o-iven to tnery kind of talents, 
was doubtl(>ss (Tratifyinof to tho feidinijs of 
conscious but indignant jjenius. lUirns 
foresaw not the miohty ruin that was to 



THE LIFE OF BURMS. 



57 



bo the irnrnocliatn consoq)u;nc(! of an ciiter- 
pris(!, which on its coninifiicciufjnt, pro- 
mised so iiiiich happiiiisss to the Jiinnan 
race. And even after tlie care(!r of guilt 
and of l)lood conimciicod, he coukl not 
innnechately, it may be presumed, with- 
(Inivv liiH partial {raze from a ])ii(;plo vvlio 
had so hilely breaLhr;d thi; Hentimeiits of 
universal peace and beiiionity ; or oblito 
rafe in his bosom the ])ictnre8 of hope and 
of happiness to which those sentiments 
had ^iven birth. Under these ini|)r(!s- 
sions, hf! did not always conduct himsidf 
v\ilh the circumspection and prud(;nce 
wiiieh his depeixlant sil nation seemed to 
demand. lie engafred indi'ed in no popu- 
lar associations, so conniion at the time 
of which we speak : but in company he 
did n(it conceal his opinions of })ul)lic 
measures, or of the reforms required in 
the practice of our government ; and 
sometimes in his social and unguarded 
moments, he uttered them with a wild 
and unjustifiable vehemence. Informa- 
tion of this was given to the Board of 
Excise, with the exaggerations so gene- 
ral in such cases. A superior oflicer in 
that department was nuthoriw(;d to impiire 
inio his conduct. Burns (h;fend(;d liim- 
8flf in a letter addressed to oiui of tlio 
Bnanl, written with great independence 
of s|)irit, and with more than his accus- 
tomed eloquence. TheofTic(;r af)pointed to 
in(piire into his conduct gave a favourable 
report. His steady friend, Mr. Graham of 
Fintry, interposed his good olhces in his be- 
half; and the imprudent gaugijr was suf- 
fered to retain his situation, but givf;n to un- 
derstanil that his promotion was deferred, 
and must depend on his future behaviour. 

" This circumstance made a deep im- 
pression on the mind of JJiirns. Fame 
exaggerated his misconduct, and repre- 
sented him as actually dismissful from his 
olhce ; and this re[)nrt induced a gentle- 
man of much respectability to pro])ose a 
subscription in his favour. The offer 
was rtifused by our y)oet in a lettrsr of 
great elevation of sentiment, in which he 
gives an account of the whole of this 
Iransnction, and deff-nds himself from the 
imputation of disloyal strntimfints on the 
one hand, and on the other, from the 
charge of having made Bubmissions for 
the sake of his office, unworthy of his 
character. 

" The partiality of my countrymen," lie 
observes, " has brouglit mi; forward as a 
man of genius, and has given me a cha- 



racter to supjjort. In the jxiot 1 have 
avowed manly and imiependent senli- 
mt.'iits, which I hope have i)een found in 
the man. Reasons of no less weight than 
the supj)ort of a wife an<l children, have 
pointed out my prest-nt occu|)ation as tho 
only eligible line of life within my reach. 
Still my hon(!st fame is my dearest con- 
cern, and a thousand times have 1 trem- 
bled at the idea, ol"the degrading c(pitln;ta 
that malice or misr('})resent;ition nuiy allix 
to my name. Often in blasting anticipa- 
tion have I list(!n(!d to somi; future hack- 
ney scribbler, with the heavy malice ot 
fi!i,vag(; stupidity, exultingly asscu'ting that 
JJurns, notwithstanding the l<)injar<innade 
of ind(^])end(;nce to be Ibuiul in his works, 
and aft(!r having been held up to ])ublic 
view, and to public estinuition, as a man 
of some genius, yet, quite destitute; of re- 
sources within himself to su|)port hisbor- 
rowfid dignity, dwindled into a paltry ex- 
ciseman, and slunk out the rcist of his in- 
significant existence in the meanest of 
pursuits, and among the lowest of maidiind. 

" In your illustrious hands. Sir, ])ermit 
me to lodge my strong disavowal and de- 
fiance of such slanderous fiilsehoods. 
Burns was a poor man from his birth, and 
an exciseman by necessity ; but. — I will. 
say it ! the sterling (d' his honest worth 
])overty could not ihibase, and his imie- 
pendent British spirit, oppression might 
bend, but could not subdue." 

It was one of the last acts of his life to 
copy this letter into his book of manu- 
scripts accompanied by some additional 
remarks on the same subject. It is not 
sur])rising, that at a season of universal 
alarm for the saliity of the constitution, the 
indiscreet expressions of a man so power- 
ful as Burns, should have attracted notice. 
The times certainly required extraordina- 
ry vigilance in those intrusted with tlie ad- 
ministration of the governmrsnt, and to 
ensure the safety of the constitution was 
doubtless tluiir first rluty. Yet generous 
minds will lament that their measures of 
precaution should have robbed the ima- 
ginntion of our poet of the last prop on 
which his hopes of indepemhince rested ; 
and by embitt(;ring his peace, have aggra- 
vated those excesses which were soon to 
conduct him to an untimely grave. 

Though thr; vehemence of Burns's tem- 
per, increaseil as it ofttm was by stimu- 
lating liquors, might lead him into many 
improper and unguarded expresjionS) 



58 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



there seems no reason to doubt of liis at- 
tachment to our mixed form of govern- 
ment. In his common-place booli, where 
he could have no temptation to disguise, 
are the following sentiments. — " What- 
ever might be my sentiments of republics, 
ancient or modern, as to Britain, I ever 
abjured the idea. A constitution, which 
in its original principles, experience has 
proved to be every way fitted for our hap- 
piness, it would be insanity to abandon 
for an untried visionary theory." In con- 
formity to these sentiments, when the 
pressing nature of public afl'airs called, in 
1795, for a genei-al arming of the people, 
Burns appeared in the ranks of the Dum- 
fries volunteers, and employed his poetical, 
talents in stimulating their patriotism ;* 
and at this season of alarm, he brought 
forward a hymn,f worthy of the Grecian 
muse, when Greece was most conspicuous 
for genius and valour. 

Though by nature of an athletic form. 
Burns had in his constitution the peculi- 
arities and delicacies that belong to the 
temperament of genius. He was liable, 
from a very early period of life, to that in- 
terruption in the process of digestion,which 
arises from deep and anxious thought, and 
which is sometimes the effect and some- 
times the cause of depression of spirits. 
Connected with this disorder of the sto- 
mach, there was a disposition to head- 
ache, affecting more especially the tem- 
ples and eye-balls, and frequently accom- 
panied by violent and irregular movements 
of the heart. Endowed by nature with 
great sensibility of nerves. Burns was, in 
his co'-poreal, as well as in his mental sys- 
tem, liable to inordinate impressions; to 
fever of body as well as of mind. This 
predisposition to disease, which strict 
temperance in diet, regular exercise, and 
sound sleep, might have subdued, habits 
of a very different nature strengthened 
and inilamed. Perpetually stimulated by 
alcohol in one or other of its various forms, 
the inordinate actions of the circulating 

* See Poem entitled The Dumfries Vohmteers. 

t Th(! Song of Death, Poems, p. 83 This poom was, 
written in 1791. It was printed in Johnson's .Musical 
Museum. The poet had an intention, in the latter part 
of liis life, of printing it separately, set to music, hut 
was advised against it, or at least discouraged from it. 
Tlie martial ardour which rose so high afterwards, on 
the threatened invasion, had not then acquired tlie 
tone necessary to give popularity to this nohle poem; 
which to the Editor, seems more calculated to invigo- 
rate the spirit of defence, in a season of rial and press- 
ing danger, tlian any produLtion of modern times. 



system became at length habitual; the 
process of nutrition was unable to sup- 
ply the waste, and the powers of life be- 
gan to fail. Upwards of a year before his 
tleath, there was an evident decline in our 
poet's personal appearance, and though 
his appetite continued unimpaired, he was 
himself sensible that his constitution was 
sinking In his moments of thought he 
reflected with the deepest regret on hia 
fatal progress, clearly foreseeing the goal 
towards which he was hastening, without 
the strength of mind necessary to stop, or 
even to slacken his course. Ilis temper 
now became more irritable and gloomy ; 
he fled from himself into society, often oi 
the lowest kind. And in such company, 
that part of the convivial scene, in which 
wine increases sensibility and excites be- 
nevolence, was hurried over, to reach the 
succeeding part, over which uncontrolled 
passion generally presided. He who suf- 
fers the pollution of inebriation, how shall 
he escape other pollution ? But let us re- 
frain from the mention of errors over 
which delicacy and humanity draw the 
veil. 

In the midst of all his wanderings, Burns 
met nothing in his domestic circle but 
gentleness and forgiveness, except in the 
gnawings of his own remorse. He ac- 
knowledged his transgressions to the wife 
of his bosom, promised amendment, and 
again and again received pardon for his 
offences. But as the strength of his body 
decayed, his resolution became feebler, and 
habit acquired predominating strength. 

From October, 1795, to the January 
following, an accidental complaint co.i- 
fined him to the house. A few days af- 
ter he began to go abroad, he dined at a 
tavern, and returned home about three 
o'clock in a very cold morning, benumbed 
and intoxicated. This was followed bv 
an attack of rheumatism, wliich confined 
him about a week. His appetite now 
began to fail ; his hand shook, and hia 
voice faltered on any exertion or emo- 
tion. His pulse becanre weaker and more 
rapid, and pain in the larger joints, and in 
the hands and feet, deprived him of tho 
enjoyment of refreshing sleep. Too much 
dejected in his spirits, and too well aware 
of his real situation to entertain hopes of 
recovery, he was ever musing on the ap- 
proaching desolation of his family, and 
his spirits sunk into a uniform gloom. 

It was hoped by some of his friends, 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



5D 



(hat if he could live through the months 
of spring, the succeeding season might 
restore him. But they were disappointed. 
The genial beams of the sun infused no 
vigour into his languid frame : the sum- 
mer wind blew upon him, but produced 
no refreshment. About the latter end of 
June lie was advised to go into the coun- 
try, and impatient of medical advice, as 
well as of every species of control, he de- 
termined for himself to try the effects of 
batliing in the sea. For this purpose he 
took up his residence at Brow, in Annan- 
dale, about ten miles east of Dumfries, on 
the shore of the Solway-Firth. 

It happened that at that time a lady 
with whom he had been connected in 
friendship by the sympathies of kindred 
genius, was residing in the immediate 
neighbourhood.* Being informed of his 
arrival, she invited liim to dinner, and 
sent her carriage for him to the cottage 
where he lodged, as he was unable to 
walk. — " I was struck," says this lady (in 
a confidential letter to a friend written 
soon after,) " with his appearance on en- 
tering the room. The stamp of death was 
miprinted on his features. lie seemed 
already touching the brink of eternity. 
His first salutation was, ' Well, Madam, 
have you any commands for the other 
world ?' I replied, that it seemed a doubt- 
ful case which of us should be there soon- 
est, and that I hoped lie would yet live to 
write my epitaph. (I was then in a bad 
state of health.) He looked in my face 
with an air of great kindness, and express- 
ed his concern at seeing me look so ill, 
with his accustomed sensibility. At table 
he ate little or nothing, and he complain- 
ed of having entirely lost the tone of his 
stomach. We had a long and serious 
conversation about his present situation, 
and the approaching termination of all 
his earthly prospects. He spoke of his 
death without any of the ostentation of 
philosophy, but with firmness as well as 
feeling, as an event likely to happen very 
Eoon ; and which gave him concern chiefly 
from leaving his four children so young 
and unprotected, and his wife in so inter- 
esting a situation — in hourly expectation 
of lying in of a fifth. He mentioned, with 
seeming pride and satisfaction, the promis- 
iiijr genius o his eldest son, and the flat- 
tering mark-; of approbation he had re- 
ceived from his teachers, and dwelt par- 
ticularly on his hopes of that boy's future 

• For a character of this lady, see letter, No. CXXIX. 
R2 



conduct and merit. His anxiety for his 
family seemed to hang heavy upon him, 
and the more perhaps from tne reflection 
that he had not done thera all the justice 
he was so well qualified to do. Passing 
from this subject, he showed great con- 
cern about the care of lii^ literary fame, 
and particularly the publication of his 
posthumous works. He said he was well 
aware that his death would occasion some 
noise, and that every scrap of his writing 
would be revived against him to the in- 
jury of his future reputation; that letters 
and verses written with unguarded and 
improper freedom, and which he earnestly 
wished to have buried in oblivion, would 
be handed about by idle vanity or niiilevo- 
lence, when no dread of his rcsemmcnt 
would restrain them, or prevent iiie cen- 
sures of shrill-tongued malice, or the in- 
sidious sarcasms of envy, from pouring 
forth all their venom to blast his fame. 

" He lamented that he had written many 
epigrams on persons against whom he en- 
tertained no enmity, and whose characters 
he should be sorry to wound ; and many 
indifferent poetical pieces, which he fear- 
ed would now, with all their imperfections 
on their head, be thrust upon the world. 
On tliis account he deeply regretted hav- 
ing deferred to put his papers in a state 
of arrangement, as he was now quite in- 
capable of the exertion." — The lady goes 
on to mention many other topics of a pri- 
vate nature on which he spoke. — " The 
conversation," she adds, " was kept up 
with great evenness and animation on his 
side. I had seldom seen his mind greater 
or more collected. There was frequently 
a considerable degree of vivacity in his 
sallies, and they would probably have had 
a greater share, had not the concern and 
dejection I could not disguise, damped the 
spirit of pleasantry he seemed not unwil- 
ling to indulge. 

" We parted about sunset on the even- 
ing of that day (the 5th July, 1796;) the 
next day I saw him again, and we parted 
to meet no more !" 

At first Burns imagined bathing in the 
sea had been of benefit to him : the pains 
in his limbs were relieved; but this was 
immediately followed by a new attack of 
fever. When brought back to his own 
house in Dumfries, on the IGth of July, 
he was no longer able to stand upright,. 
Attliistime a tremor pervaded his frame* 
his toBgue was parched, and his mind 



60 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



sunk into delirium, when not roused by 
conversation. On the second and third 
day the fever increased, and his strength 
diminished. On the fourth, the sutierings 
of this great but ill-fated genius, were 
terminated ; and a life was closed in whicli 
virtue and passio/ d been at perpetual va- 
riance.* 

The death of Burns made a strong and 
general impression on all who had inter- 
ested themselves in his character, and es- 
pecially on the inhabitants of the town 
and county in which he had spent the 
latter years of his life. Flagrant as his 
follies and errors had been, they had not 
deprived him of the respect and regard 
entertained for the extraordinary powers 
of his genius, and the generous qualities 
of his heart. The Gentlemen- Volun.teers 
of Dumfries determined to bury their il- 
lustrious associate with military honours, 
and every preparation was made to ren- 
der this last service solemn and impres- 
sive. The Fencible Infantry of Angus- 
ehire, and the regiment of cavalry of the 
Cinque Ports, at that time quartered in 
Dumfries, offered their assistance on this 
occasion ; the principal inhabitants of the 
town and neighbourhood determined to walk 
in the funeral procession ; and a vast con- 
course of persons assembled, some of them 
from a considerable distance, to witness 
the obsequies of the Scottish Bard. On 
the evening of the 25th of July, the re- 
mains of Burns were removed from his 
house to the Town-Hall, and the funeral 
took place on the succeeding day. A party 
of the volunteers, selected to perform the 
military duty in the church-yard, stationed 
themselves in the front of the procession, 
with their arms reversed; the main body 
of the corps surrounded and supported the 
coffin, on which were placed the hat and 
sword of their friend and fellow-soldier ; 
the numerous body of attendants ranged 
themselves in the rear ; while the Fenci- 
ble regiments of infantry and cavalry lined 
the streets from the Town-Hall to the bu- 
rial ground in the Southern church-yard, 
a distance of more than half a mile. The 
whole procession moved forward to that 
Bublime and affecting strain of music, the 
Dead March in Saul; and three volleys 
fired over his grave, marked the return of 
Burns to his parent earth ! The spectacle 
was in a high degree grand and solemn, 

* The particulars respecting the illness and death 
«f Burns were oblisingly furnished by Dr. Maxwell, 
Ibe physician who attended him. 



and accorded with the general sentiments 
of sympathy and sorrow which the occasion 
had called forth. 

It was an affecting circumstance, that, 
on the morning of the day of her hus- 
band's funeral, Mrs. Burns was undergoing 
the pains of labour; and that during the 
solemn service we have just been describ- 
ing, the posthumous son of our poet was 
born. This infant boy, who received the 
name of Maxwell, was not destined to a 
long life. He has already become an in- 
habitant of the same grave with his cele- 
brated father. The four other children of 
our poet, all sons, (the eldest at tliat time 
about ten years of age) yet survive, and 
give every promise of prudence and virtue 
that can be expected from their tender 
years. They remain under the care of 
their affectionate mother in Dumfries, and 
are enjoying the means of education which 
the excellent schools of that town afford ; 
the teachers of which, in their conduct to 
the children of Bums, do themselves great 
honour. On this occasion tlie name of 
Mr. Wythe deserves to be particularly 
mentioned, himself a poet, as well as a man 
of science.* 

Bums died in great poverty ; but the 
independence of his spirit and the exem- 
plary prudence of his wife, had preserved 
him from debt. He had received from 
his poems a clear profit of about nine hun- 
dred pounds. Of this sum, the part ex- 
pended on his library (which was tar from 
extensive) and in the humble furniture 
of his house, remained ; and obligations 
were found for two hundred pounds ad- 
vanced by him to the assistance of those 
to whom he was united by the ties of 
blood, and still more by those of esteem 
and affection. When it is considered, that 
his expenses in Edinburgh, and on his va- 
rious journeys, could not be hiconsiderable ; 
that his agricultural undertaking was un- 
successful; that his income from the ex- 
cise was for some time as low as fifty, and 
never rose to above seventy pounds a-year ; 
that his family was large, and his spirit 
liberal — no one will be surprised that hig 
circumstances were so poor, or that as 
his health decayed his proud and feel- 
ing heart sunk under tlie secret con- 
sciousness of indigence, and tlie appre- 
hensions of absolute want. Yet poverty 
never bent the spirit of Burns to any pe- 

* Author of " St. Guerdon's Well," a poem; and of 
" A Tribute to the Memory of Burns." 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



61 



cuniary meanness. Neither chicanery 
nor sordidness ever appeared in his con- 
duct. He carried his disregard of mo- 
ney to a blameable excess. Even in the 
midst of distress he bore himself loftily 
to the world, and received with a jealous 
reluctance every offer of friendly assis- 
tance. His printed poems had procured 
him great celebrity, and a just and fair 
recompense for the latter offsprings of his 
pen might have produced him considera- 
ble emolument. In the year 1795, the 
Editor of a London newspaper, high in its 
character for literature, and independence 
of sentiment, made a proposal to him that 
he should furnish them, once a week, 
with an article for their poetical depart- 
ment, and receive from them a recom- 
pense of fifty-two guineas per annum ; 
an offer which the pride of genius disdain- 
ed to accept. Vet he had for several 
years furnished, and was at that time fur- 
nishing, the Museum of Johnson with his 
beautiful lyrics, without fee or reward, 
and was obstinately refusing all recom- 
pense for his assistance to the greater 
work of Mr. Thomson, which the jus- 
tice and generosity of that gentleman was 
pressing upon him. 

The sense of his poverty, and of the ap- 
proaching distress of his infant family, 
pressed heavily on Burns as he lay on the 
bed of death. Yet he alluded to his in- 
digence, at times with something ap- 
proaching to his wonted gayety. — " What 
business," said he to Dr. Maxwell, who 
attended him with the utmost zeal, " has 
a physician to waste his time on me ? I 
am a poor pigeon, not worth plucking. 
Alas ! I have not feathers enough upon 
me to carry me to my grave." And when 
his reason was lost in delirium his ideas 
ran in the same melancholy train ; the 
horrors of a jail were continually present 
to his troubled imagination, and produced 
the most affecting exclamations. 

As for some months previous to his 
death he had been incapable of the duties 
of his office. Burns dreaded that his salary 
ehould be reduced one half as is usual in 
euch cases. His full emoluments were, 
however, continued to him by the kind- 
ness of Mr. Stobbie, a young expectant 
in the Excise, who performed the duties 
of his office without fee or reward ; and 
Mr. Graham of Fintry, hearing of his ill- 
ness, though unacquainted with its dan- 
gerous nature, made an offer of his assis- 
tance towards procuring him the means 



of preserving his health. Whatever 
might be the faults of Burns, mgratitude 
was not of the number. — Amongst hig 
manuscripts, various proofs are found of 
the sense hh entertained of Mr. Graham's 
friendship, which delicacy towards that 
gentleman has induced us to suppress ; 
and on this last occasion there is no doubt 
that his heart overflowed towards him, 
though he had no longer the power o. 
expressing his feelings.* 

On the death of Burns the inhabitants 
of Dumfries and its neighbourhood opened 
a subscription for the support of his wife 
and family ; and Mr. Miller, Mr. M'Mur- 
do. Dr. Maxwell, Mr. Syme, and Mr. 
Cunningham, gentlemen of the first re- 
spectability, became trustees for the ap- 
plication of the money to its proper ob- 
jects. The subscription was extended to 
other parts of Scotland, and of England 
also, particularly London and Liverpool. 
By this means a sum was raised amount- 
ing to seven hundred pounds ; and thus 
the widow and children were rescued from 
immediate distress, and the most melan- 
choly of the forebodings of Burns happily 
disappointed. It is true, this sum, though 
equal to their present support, is insuffi- 
cient to secure them from future penury. 
Their hope in regard to futurity depends 
on the favourable reception of these vo- 
lumes from the public at large, in the 
promoting of which the candour and hu- 
manity of the reader may induce him to 
lend his assistance. 

Burns, as has already been mentioned, 
was nearly five feet ten inches in height, 
and of a form that indicated agility as well 
as strength. His well-raised forehead, 
shaded with black curling hair, indicated 
extensive capacity. His eyes were large, 
dark, full of ardour and intelligence. His 
face was well formed ; and his cou/ite- 
nance uncommonly interesting and ex- 
pressive. His mode of dressing, which 
was often slovenly, and a certain fulness 
and bend i i his shoulders, characteristic 
of his original profession, disguised in 
some degree the natural symmetry and 
elegance of his form. The external ap- 
pearance of Burns was most strikingly in- 
dicative of the character of his mind. On 
a first view, his physiognomy had a cer- 
tain air of coarseness, mingled, however, 

* The letter of Mr. Graliam, alluded to above, is 
dated on the I3th of .Tuly, and probably arrived on tlij 
15th. Burns became delirious on the 17tli or 18tli, 
and died on the 21st. 



62 



THE LIFE OF BURNS, 



with an expression of deep penetration, 
and of calm thoug^htfulness, approaching 
to melancholy. There appeared in his 
first manner and address, perfect ease 
imd self-possession, but a stern and almost 
supercilious elevation, not, indeed, incom- 
patible with openness and aftability,which, 
however, bespoke a mind conscious of su- 
perior talents. Straiio;ers that supposed 
themselves approaching an Ayrshire pea- 
sant who could make rhymes, and to whom 
their notice was an honour, found them- 
selves speedily overawed by the presence 
of a man who bore himself with dignity, 
and who possessed a smgular power of 
correctmg forwardness, and of repelling 
intrusion. But though jealous of the re- 
spect due to himself, IJurns never enforced 
it where he saw it was willingly paid ; 
and, though inaccessible to the appro.ach- 
es of pride, he was open to every advance 
of kindness and of benevolence. His dark 
and haughty countenance easily relaxed 
into a look of good-will, of pity, or of ten- 
derness; and, as the various emotions 
succeeded each other in his mind, assumed 
with equal ease the expression of the 
broadest humour, of the most extravagant 
mirth, of the deepest melancholy, or of 
the most sublime emotion. The tones of 
his voice happily corresponded with the 
expression of his features, and with the 
feelings of his mind. When to these en- 
dowments are added a rapid and distinct 
apprehension, a most powerful under- 
standing, and a happy command of lan- 
guage — of strength as well as brilliancy 
of expression — we shall be able to ac- 
count for the extraordinary attractions of 
his conversation — for the sorcery which 
in his social parties he seemed to exert 
on all around him. In the company of 
women this sorcery was more especiaily 
apparent. Their presence charmed the 
fiend of melancholy in his bosom, and 
awoke his iiappiest feelings; it excited 
the powers of his fancy, as well as the 
tenderness of his heart ; and, by restrain- 
ing the vehemence and the exuberance 
of his language, at times gave to liis man- 
ners the impression of taste, and even of 
elegance, which in the company of men 
they seldom possessed. This influence 
was doubtless reciprocal. A Scottish 
Lady, accustomed to the best society, de- 
clared with characteristic naivcfe, that no 
man's conversation ever cMrried her so 
cornplffr/y off' hfr feet as that of Burns ; 
and an Englisli Lady, familiarly acquaint- 
ed with several of the most distinguished I 
characters of tlie present times, assured | 



the Editor, that in the happiest of his so 
cial hours, there was a charm about Burn* 
which she had never seen equalled. This 
charm arose not more from the power than 
the versatility of his genius. No languor 
could be felt in the society of a man who 
passed at pleasure ^vom grave to gat/^ from 
the ludicrous to the pathetic, from the sim- 
ple to the sublime ; who wielded all his 
faculties with equal strength and ease, 
and never failed to impress the offspring 
of his fancy with the stamp of his under, 
standing. 

This indeed, is to represent Burns in his 
happiest phasis. In large and mixed par- 
ties he was often silent and dark, some- 
times fierce and overbearing ; he waa 
jealous of the proud man's scorn, jealoua 
to an extreme of the insolence of wealth, 
and prone to avenge, even on its innocent 
possessor, the partiahty of fortune. By 
nature khid, brave, sincere, and in a sin- 
gular degree compassionate, he was on 
the other hand proud, irascible, and vin- 
dictive. His virtues and his failings had 
their origin in the extraordinary sensi- 
bility of his mind, and equally partook of 
the chills and glows of sentiment. His 
friendships were liable to interruption 
from jealousy or disgust, and liis enmities 
died away under the influence of pity or 
self-accusation. His undcretanding was 
equal to the other powers of his mind, 
and his deliberate opinions were singular- 
ly candid and just ; but, like other men of 
great and irregular genius, the opinions 
which he delivered in conversation were 
often the offspring of temporary feelings, 
and widely different from the calm deci- 
sions of ills judgment. This was not 
merely true respecting the characters of 
others, but in regard to some of the most 
important points of human speculation. 

On no subject did he give a more strik- 
ing proof of the strength of his under- 
standing, than in the correct estimate he 
formed of himself. He knew his own 
failings ; he predicted their consequence ; 
the melancholy foreboding was never long 
absent from his mind ; yet his passions 
carried him down the stream of error, 
and swept him over the precipice he saw 
directly in his course. The fatal defect 
in his character lay in the comparative 
weakness of his volition, that superioi 
facultv of the mind, which governing the 
conduct according to the dictates of the 
understanding, alone entitles it to be de- 
nominated rational ; which is the parent 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



63 



of fortitude, patience, and self-denial ; 
which, by regulating and combining hu- 
tnan exertions, may be said to have ef- 
fected all that is great in the works of 
man, in literature, in science, or on the 
face of nature. The occupations of a 
poet are not calculated to strengthen the 
governing powers of the mind, or to weak- 
en tiiat sensibility which requires per- 
petual control, since it gives birth to the 
veliemence of passion as well as to the 
higher powers of imagination. Unfortu- 
nately the favourite occupations of genius 
are calculated to increase all its peculi- 
arities ; to nourish that lofty pride which 
disdains tlie littleness of prudence, and 
the restrictions of order : and by indul- 
gence, to increase that sensibility which, 
in the present form of our existence, is 
scarcely compatible with peace or happi- 
ness, even when accompanied with the 
choicest gifts of fortune ! 

It is observed by one who was a friend 
and associate of Burns,* and who has 
contemplated and explained the system of 
animated nature, that no sentient being 
with mental powers greatly superior to 
those of men, could possibly live and be 
happy in this world — " If such a being 
really existed," continues he, " his misery 
would be extreme. With senses more 
delicate and refined ; with perceptions 
more acute and penetrating ; with a taste 
so exquisite that the objects around him 
would by no means gratify it ; obliged to 
feed on nourishment too gross for his 
frame ; he must be born only to be mis- 
erable ; and the continuation of his exis- 
tence would be utterly impossible. Even 
in our present condition, the sameness 
and the insipidity of objects and pursuits, 
the futility of pleasure, and the infinite 
sources of excruciating pain, are support- 
ed with great difficulty by cultivated and 
refined minds. Increase our sensibilities, 
continue the same objects and situation, 
and no man could bear to live." 

Thus it appears, that our powers of 
sensation as well as all our other powers, 
are adapted to the scene of our existence ; 
that they are limited in mercy, as well as 
in wisdom. 

The speculations of Mr. Smellie are 
not to be considered as the dreams of a 
theorist ; they were probably founded on 
sad experience. The being he supposes, 

•Smellie— See hia "?liilosopliy of Natural History." 



" with senses more delicate and refined, 
with perceptions more acute and pene- 
trating," is to be found in real life. He 
is of the temperament of genius, and per- 
haps a poet. Is there, then, no remedy 
for this inordinate sensibility ? Are there 
no means by which the happiness of one 
so constituted by nature may be consult- 
ed ? Perhaps it will be found, that regular 
and constant occupation, irksome though 
it may at first be, is the true remedy. 
Occupation in which the powers of the 
understanding are exercised, will dimin- 
ish the force of external impressions, and 
keep the imagination under restraint. 

That the bent of every man's mind 
should be followed in his education and 
in his destination in life, is a maxim which 
has been often repeated, but which can- 
not be admitted, without many restric- 
tions. It may be generally true when 
applied to weak minds, which being capa- 
ble of little, must be encouraged and 
strengthened in the feeble impulses by 
which that little is produced. Bvit where 
indulgent nature has bestowed her gifts 
with a liberal hand, the very reverse of this 
maxim ought frequently to be the rule of 
conduct. In minds of a higher order, the 
object of instruction and of discipline is 
very often to restrain, rather than to im- 
pel ; to curb the impulses of imagina- 
tion, so that the passions also may bo 
kept under control.* 

Hence the advantages, even in a moral 
point of view, of studies of a severer na- 
ture, which while they inform the under- 
standing, employ the volition, that regu- 
lating power of the mind, which, like all 
our other faculties, is strengthened by ex- 
ercise, and on the superiority of which, 
virtue, happiness, and honourable fume, 
are wholly dependant. Hence also the 
advantage of regular and constant appli- 

* Q.uinctilian discusses the important question, whe- 
ther the bent of the individual's genius should be fol- 
lowed in his education {an secundum sui quisque in- 
genii doccndus sit naturam,) chiefly, indeed, with a 
reference to the orator, but in a way that admits of 
very general application. His conclusions coincide 
very much with those of the text. "An vero Isocrates 
cum de Ephoro atque Theopompo sic judicaret, ut al- 
teri frenis, alteri calcaribiis npus esse diceret ; aut In 
illo lentiore tardilateni, aut in illo pene prsecipiti con- 
citaliononi adjuvaiidnm doceiidoexisliinavit ? cum alte- 
runi alterius natuianiiscendum arbitral elur. ImbcciiliB 
tanicn infjoniis sane sic otpspiyiendwrn, sit, ut tntilum in 
id quo vocat natura, diicantur. Ita enini, quod solum 
possunt. melius cflicient." 

Inst. Orator, lib. ii. 'J. 



64 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



cation, which aids the voluntary power by 
the production of habits so necessary to 
the support of order and virtue, and so 
difficult to be formed in the temperament 
of genius. 

The man who is so endowed and so re- 
gulated, may pursue his course with con- 
fidence in almost any of the various walks 
of life which choice or accident shall open 
to him ; and, provided he employs the ta- 
lents he has cultivated, may hope for such 
imperfect happiness, and such limited suc- 
cess, as are reasonably to be expected from 
human exertions. 

The pre-eminence among men, which, 
procures personal respect, and which ter- 
minates in lasting reputation, is seldom 
or never obtained by the excellence of a 
single faculty of mind. Experience teach- 
es us, that it has been acquired by those 
only who have possessed the comprehen- 
sion and the energy of general talents, 
and who have regulated their application, 
in the line which choice, or perhaps ac- 
cident, may have determined, by the dic- 
tates of tlieir judgment. Imagination is 
supposed, and with justice, to be the lead- 
ing faculty of the poet. But what poet 
has stood the test of time by the force of 
this single faculty ? Who does not see 
that Homer and Shakspeare excelled the 
rest of their species in understanding as 
well as in imagination ; that they were 
pre-eminent in the highest species of 
knowledge — the knowledge of the nature 
and character of man? On the other 
hand, the talent of ratiocination is more 
especially requisite to the orator ; but no 
man ever obtained the palm of oratory, 
even by the highest excellence in this 
single talent. Who does not perceive 
thai. Demosthenes and Cicero were not 
more happy in their addresses to the rea- 
son, than in thoir appeals to the passions? 
They knew, that to excite, to agitate, 
and to delight, are among the most po- 
tent arts of persuasion ; and they enforced 
their impression on the vmderstanding, by 
their command of all the sympathies of 
the heart. These observations might be 
extended to other walks of life. He who 
has the faculties fitted to excel in poetry, 
has the faculties which, duly governed, 
and differently directed, might lead to pre- 
eminence in other, and, as far as respects 
himself, perhaps in happier destinations. 
The talents necessary to the construction 
of an Iliad, under different discipline and 
application, might have led armies to vic- 



tory, or kingdoms to prosperity; might 
have wielded the thunder of eloquence, or 
discovered and enlarged the sciences that 
constitute the power and improve the con- 
dition of our species. '*' Such talents are, 

* The reader must not suppose it is contended that 
the same individual could have exceiled in all these di- 
rections. A certain drgree of instruction and practice 
is necessary to excellence in every one, and lil'e is loo 
short to admit of one man, however great his talents, 
acquiring this in all of them. It is only asserted, that 
the same talents, differently applied, might have suc- 
ceeded in anyone, thougli perhaps, not equally well in 
each. And, after all, this position requires certain li- 
mitations, which the reader's candour and judgment 
will supply. In supposing that a great poet might have 
made a great orator, the physical qualties necessary to 
oratory are pre-supposed. In supposing that a great 
orator might have made a great poet, it is a necessary 
condition, that he should have devoted himself to poe- 
try, and that he should have acquired a proficiency m 
metrical numbers, which by patience and attention 
may be acquired, though the want of it has embarrass- 
ed and chilled many of the first efforts of true poetical 
genius. In supposing that Homer niighthaveled armies 
to victory, more indeed is assumed than the physical 
qualities of a general. To these must be added that har- 
dihood of mind, that coolness in the midst of difficulty 
and danger, which great poets and orators are found 
sometimes, but not always to possess. The nature of 
the institutions of Greece and Rome produced more 
instances of single individuals who excelled in various 
departments of active and speculative life, than occur 
in modern Europe, where the employments of rntn are 
more subdivided. Many of the greatest warrmrs of 
antiquity excelled in literature and in oratory. That 
they had the minds of great poets also, will be admitted, 
when the qualities are justly appreciated which are 
necessary to excite, combine, and command the active 
energies of a great body of men, to rouse that enthusi 
asm which sustains fatigue, hunger, and the inclemen- 
cies of the elements, and which triumphs over the fear 
of death, the most powerful instinct of our nature. 

The authority of Cicero may be appealed to in favour 
of the close connexion between the poet and the orator. 
Est enim finitimus onitori poeta, numeris adstriclior 
paulo, vcrborum autein licentia liherior, <$-c. De Ora- 
tore, Lib. i. c. 16. See also Lib. iii c. 7.— It is true 
the example of Cicero may be quoted against his opi- 
nion. His attempts in verse, which are praised by Plu- 
tarch, do not seem to have met the approbation of Ju- 
venal, or of some others. Cicero probably did not take 
sufficient time to learn the art of the poet ; but that he 
had the afflatus necessary to poetical excellence, may 
be abundantly proved from hia compositions in prose. 
On the other hand, nothing is more clear, than that, in 
the character of a great poet, all the mental qualities oi 
an orator are included. It is said by Qiiinctilian, of 
Homer, Omnibus eloqucntite partihus exempbna et or- 
turn dcdit liib. i. 47. The study of Homer is therefore 
recommended to the orator, as of the first importance. 
Of the two sublime poets in our own language, who are 
hardly inferior to Homer, Shakspeare and Milton, a 
similar recnmmendation may be given. It is scarcely 
necessary to mention how nmch an acquaintance witli 
them has availed the great orator who is now theprUa 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



65 



indeed, rare among the productions of na- 
ture, and occasions of bringinj^ them into 
full exertion are rarer still. But safe and 
salutary occupations may be found for men 
of genius in every direction, while the 
useful and ornamental arts remain to be 
cultivated, while the sciences remain to 
be studied and to be extended, and prin- 
ciples of science to be applied to the cor- 
rection and improvement of art. In the 
temperament of sensibility, which is in 
truth the temperament of general talents, 
the principal object of discipline and in- 
struction is, as has already been mention- 
ed, to strengthen the self-command ; and 
this may be promoted by the direction of 
the studies, more effectually perhaps than 
has been generally understood. 

Ifthese observations be founded in truth, 
they may lead to practical consequences of 
some importance. It has been too much 
the custom to consider the possession of 
poetical talents as excluding the possibili- 
ty of application to the severer branches 
of study, and as in some degree incapaci- 
tating the possessor from attaining those 
habits, and from bestowing that attention, 
which are necessary to success in the de- 
tails of business, and in the engagements 
of active life. It has been common for 
persons conscious of such talents, to look 
with a sort of disdain on other kinds of 
intellectual excellence, and to consider 
themselves as in some degree absolved 
from those rules of prudence by which 
humbler minds are restricted. They are 

and ornament of the English bar, a character that may 
be appealed to with singular proprifty, wlien we are 
contending for the universality of genius. 

The identity, or at least the great similarity, of the 
talents necessary to excellence in poetry, oratory, paint- 
ing, and war, will be admitted by some, who will be in- 
clined to dispute the extension of the position to science 
or natural knowledge On this occasion I may quote 
the following observations of Sir William Jones, whose 
own example will however far exceed in weight the 
authority of his precepts. " Abul Ola had so flourish- 
ing a reputation, that several persons of uncommon 
{:enius were ambitious of learning the art of poetry 
from so able an instructor. His most illustrious scholars 
were Feleki and Khakani, who were no less eminent 
for their Persian compositions, than for their skill in 
every branch of pure and mixed mathematics, and par- 
ticularly in astrnnomy ; a striking proof that a sublime 
poet may become master of any kind of learning which 
lie chooses to profess ; since a fine imagination, a lively 
wit, an easy and copious style, cannot possibly ob 
struct the acquisition of any science whatever; but 
must necessarily assist him in his studies, and shorten 
^\;iiit\ii^' Sit William Jones' s tVorks, vol »•* 3l» 



too much disposed to abandon themselves 
to their own sensations, and to suffer life 
to pass away without regular exertion or 
settled purpose. 

But though men of genius are generally 
prone to indolence, with them indolence 
and unhappiness are in a more especial 
manner allied. The unbidden splendours 
of imagination may indeed at times irra- 
diate the gloom which inactivity produces ; 
but such visions, though bright, are tran- 
sient, and serve to cast the realities of 
life into deeper shade. In bestowing great 
talents. Nature seems very generally to 
have imposed on the possessor the neces- 
sity o-f exertion, if he would escape wretch- 
edness. Better for him than sloth, toils 
the most painful, or adventures the most 
hazardous. Happier to him than idleness, 
were the condition of the peasant, earn- 
ing with incessant labour his scanty food ; 
or that of the sailor, though hanging on 
the yard-arm, and wrestling with the hur- 
ricane. 

These observations might be amply il- 
lustrated by the biography of men of ge- 
nius of every denomination, and more es- 
pecially by the biography of the poets. 
Of this last description of men, few seem 
to have enjoyed the usual portion of hap- 
piness that falls to the lot of humanity, 
those excepted who have cultivated poe- 
try as an elegant amusement in the hours 
of relaxation from other occupations, or 
the small number who have engaged with 
success in the greater or more arduous 
attempts of the muse, in which all the 
faculties of the mind have been fully and 
permanently employed. Even taste, vir- 
tue, and comparative independence, do 
not seem capable of bestowing on men of 
genius, peace and tranquillity, without 
such occupation as may give regular and 
healthful exercise to the faculties of body 
and mind. The amiable Shenstone has 
left us the records of his imprudence, of 
his indolence, and of his unhappiness, 
amidst the shades of the Leasowes;* and 
the virtues, the learning, and the genius 
of Gray, equal to the loftiest attempts of 
the epic muse, failed to procure him in 
the academic bowers of Cambridge, that 
tranquillity and that respect which less 
fastidiousiiess of taste, and greater con- 
stancy and vigour of exertion, would have 
doubtless obtained. 

•See his Letters, which, as a display of the effects (rf 
poetical idleness, are highly instructive- 



66 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



It is more necessary that men of genius 
should be aware of the importance of sclf- 
comniand, and of exertion, l)ccause their 
indolence is peculiarly exposed, not mere- 
ly to nnhappines!*, but to diseases of mind, 
and to errors of conduct, which are gene- 
rally fatal. This interesting subi<;ct de- 
serves a particular investigation ; but we 
must content ourselves with one or two 
cursory remarks. Relief is sometimes 
sought from the melancholy of indolence 
in ])riicticcs, which for a time sooth and 
gratify the sensations, but which in the 
end involve the sufferer in darker gloom. 
To coinniand the external circumstances 
by which happiness is all'ected, is not in 
human power ; but there are various sub- 
stances in nature which operate on the 
system of the nerves, so as to give a fic- 
titious gayety to the ideas of imagination, 
and to alter the elfect of the external im- 
pressions which we receive. Opium is 
chielly employed for this purpose by the 
disciples of Mahomet and the inhabitants 
of Asia; but alcohol, the principle of in- 
toxication in vinous and spirituous liquors, 
is preferred in I'hirope, and is universally 
used in the Christian world.* Under the 
various wounds to which indolent sensi- 
bility is exposed, and under the gloomy 
apprehensions respecting futurity to wliich 



* There are a great number of other Bubstances, 
which may be considered under tliis point of vlpw. 
Tobacco, tea, and coffi^e, ore of the luunber. Tliesc sub- 
stances essentially differ froniracli other in their quali- 
ties ; and an inquiry into the particular elfecls of eadi 
on the health, morals, and happiness of those who use 
tlicin, would be curious and useful. The effects of 
wine and of opium on the temperament of sensibility, 
the I'Alitor intended to have dis' nssed in this place at 
some lencth ; but he found the subject too extensive and 
too professional to be iiitroduce<l with propriety. The 
dilficuliy of abundoniiiR aiiy of these narcotics (if we 
may so term them,) when inclination is strenRlhcned by 
habit, is well kimwn. JohnHon, in his distresses, had 
experienced the cheering but treacherous influence of 
wine, and by a powerful effort, abandoned it. lie was 
obli;;e(l, however, to use tea as a subslilnto, and this 
was the solace to which he constantly bad recourse 
under his habitual melancholy. 'I'he praises of wine 
form many of the most beautiful lyrics of the poets of 
Greece aiul Rome, and of modern Kurope. Whether 
opium, which produces visions sllll more ecstatic, has 
been the theme of the eastern poems, I do not know. 

Wine Is drunk in small quantities at a time, in com- 
pany, where, /or a time, it promotes harmony and so- 
cial atVection. Opium is swallowed by the Asiatics in 
full doses at once and the inebriate retiree to the soli- 
tary indulKenci^ of his delirious imaginations. Hence 
the wine drinker appears in a superior lifjlit to the im- 
biber of opium, n distincticm which he owes more to 
tUi! form than to the qiuilitij of his liquor. 



it is SO often a prey, how strong is tho 
temptation to have recourse to an anti- 
dote by which the pain of these wounds 
is suspended, by which the heart is exhi- 
larated, visions of happiness arc excited in 
the mind, and the forms of external na- 
ture clotiied with new beauty ! 

" Elysium opens round, 
A pleasing frenzy buoys the lii;hlen'd soul, 
And san(;nine hopes dispel your fleeting care; 
And what was difficult, and what was dire, 
Yields to your prowess, aiul superior stars: 
Tlie happiest you of all that e'er were mad, 
Or are, or shall be, could this folly last. 
Ilut soon your heaven is gone ; a heavier gloom 
Sluits o'er your head 



Morning comes; your cares return 

Withten fold rage. An anxious stomach well 
May be endured ; so may the throbbing iiead : 
Jiut such a dim delirium ; such a dream 
Involves you; such a dastardly despair 
Unmans your soul, as madd'ning I'cntlicus felt, 
When, baited round Citha'ron's cruel sides, 
He saw two suns and double Tlicbes ascend." 

Jlrmstrong's Jlrt of Preserving Health' 

Such are the pleasures and the pains 
of intoxication, as they occur in tiie tem- 
perament of sensibility, described by a 
genuine poet, with a degree of truth 
and energy which nothing but experience 
could have dictated. There are, indeed, 
some individuals of this temperament on 
whom wine produces no cheering influ- 
ence. On some, even in very moderate 
quantities, its effects are painfully irri- 
tating ; in large draughts it excites dark 
and melancholy ideas ; and in draughts 
still larger, the fierceness of insanity it- 
self. Such men are happily exempted 
from a temptation, to which experience 
tenrlies us the finest dispositions often 
yield, and the influence of which, when 
strengthened b}' habit, it is a humiliating 
truth, that the most powerful minds have 
not been able to resist. 

It is the more necessary for men of 
genius to be on their guard ngainst tho 
habitual use of wine, Ijocause it is apt to 
steal on thom insensibly ; and because 
the temptation to excess usually presents 
itself to thom in their social hours, when 
they are alive only to warm and generous 
emotions, and wluni prud(Mice and mode- 
ration are often contemned as selfishness 
and timidity. 

It is the more necessary for them to 
I guard against excess in the use of wine, 



THE LIFE OF BURNS, 



(57 



because on them its effects are, physically 
and morally, in an fjspocial mann(>r inju- 
rioiiB. In proportion to its sliiniilating 
influcnco on tlio systcMii (on wliic.li the 
pleasurable sensations depend,) is the de- 
bility t hat ensues ; a debility that destroys 
diirestion, and terminates in habitual fe- 
ver, dropsy, jaundice, paralysis, or insani- 
ty. As the strength of the body decays, 
the volition fails ; in proportion as the 
sensations are soothed and frratified, the 
Bensibility increases ; and morbid sensi- 
bility is tiie parent of indolence, because, 
while it impairs tlie regulating power of 
the mind, it exaggerates all the obstacles 
to exertion. Activity, perseverance, and 
self-command, become more and more 
diffic\iU, and the great purposes of utility, 
patriotism, or of honourable ambition, 
which had occupied the imagination, die 
away in fruitless resolutions, or in feeble 
efforts. 

To apply these observations to the sub- 
ject of our memoirs, would be a useless as 
well as a painful task. It is, indeed, a 
duty we owe to the living, not to allow 
our admiration of great genius, or even 
onr pity for its unhappy destiny, to con- 
ceal or disguise its errors. But there are 
sentiments of respect, and even of tender- 
ness, with which this duty should be per- 
formed ; there is an awful sanctity which 
invests the mansions of the dead ; and let 
those who moralise over the graves of 
their contemporaries, reflect with humili- 
ty on their own errors, nor forget how 
soon they may themselves require the 
candour and the sympathy they are called 
upon to bestow. 



Soon after the death of Burns, the fol- 
lowing article appeared in the Dumfries 
Journal, from which it was copied into 
the Edinburgh newspapers, and. into vari- 
ous other periodical publications. It is 
from the elegant pen of a lady already 
alluded to in the course of these memoirs,* 
whose exertions for the family of our bard, 
in the circles of literature and fashion in 
which she moves, have done her so much 
honour. 

" The attention of the public seems to 
be much occupied at present with the loss 
it has recently sustained in the death of 
the Caledonian poet, Robert Burns ; a 

• See p. 50. 

s 



loss calculated to be severely felt through- 
out the literary world, as well as lamented 
in the narrower sj)liere of i)rivate friend- 
ship. Jt was not, tliereforf!, ()robaI)le, that 
sucii an event should he long unattended 
with tiie accustomed profusion of posthu- 
mous anecdotes and menioirs which are 
usually circulated immediately after the 
death of every rare and cehsbrated person- 
age : I had, however, conceived no inten- 
tion of appropriating to myself the privi- 
lege of criticising Burns's writings and 
character, or of anticipating on the pro- 
vince of a biographer. 

" Conscious, indeed, of my own ina- 
bility to do justice to such a subject, I 
should have continued wholly silent, 
had misrepresentation and calumny been 
less industrious; but a regard to truih, 
no less than aflection for the memory of 
a friend, must now justify my offering to 
the public a few at least of those obser- 
vations which an intimate acquaintance 
with Burns, and the frequent opportuni- 
ties I have had of observing equally hia 
happy qualities and his failings for seve- 
ral years past, have enabled me to com- 
municate. 

" It will actually be an injustice done 
to Burns's character, not only by future 
generations and foreign countries, but 
even by his native Scotlaml, and perhaps 
a nimiber of his contemporaries, that he 
is jrenerally talked of, and considered, 
with reference to his poetical talents only: 
for the fact is, even allowing his great 
and original genius its due tribute of ad- 
miration, that poetry ([ appeal to all who 
have had the advantage of being person- 
ally acquainted with him) was actually 
not liis /"or/e. Many others, perhaps, may 
have ascended to prouder heights in the 
region of Parnassus, but none certainly 
ever outshone Burns in the charms — the 
sorcery, I would almost call it, of fasci- 
nating conversation, the spontaneous elo- 
quence of social argument, or the imstu- 
died j)oignancy of brilliant repartee; nor 
was any man, I believe, ever gifted with 
a largfjr portion of the ' vividn vis animi.' 
His personal endowments were perfectly 
correspondent to the qualifications of his 
mind; his form was manly; his action, 
energy itself; devoid in a great measure 
perhaps of those graces, of that polish, 
acquired only in the refinement of soci- 
eties where in early life he could have no 
opportunities of mixing; but where such 
was the irresistible power of attraction 



THE LIFE OP BURNS. 



thiit encircled Iiim, tlioujrh his appearance 
and inatmcrs were always peculiar, he 
never failed (o delif^ht, and to excel. His 
liecure seemed to hear testimony to liis 
narlier destination and employments. It 
seemed rather moulded by nature for the 
roiinfh exercises of uirriculturo, than tiie 
gfentler cultivation of the IJelles Lettres. 
His features were stamped with the hardy 
character ofindependence,aud the firmness 
of conscious, thouj^h not arrotrant, pre- 
eminence; the animated expressions of 
countenance were almost peculiar to him- 
st'lf; the rapid lifrhtuiiif^s of his eye were 
always the harhiuirers of some Hash of 
genius, whether tliey darted the liery 
glances of insulted and indiirnant superi- 
ority, or beamed with the impassioned 
sentiment of fervent and impetuous atlec- 
tions. His voice alone could imjirove 
upon the mafjic of his eye : sonorous, re- 
plete with the finest modulations, it al- 
ternately captivated the ear with the 
melody of poetic numbers, tiie perspicuity 
of nervous reasonintr, or the ardent sal- 
lies of enthusiastic patriotism. The keen- 
ness of satire was, I am almost at a loss 
whether to say, his forte or his foible; for 
thoui>h nuture had endowed him with a 
portion of tlie most pointed excellence in 
tiiat dunperous tah'iit, lie suffered it too 
often to be the vehicle of personal, and 
Bometimes unfounded animosities. It 
was not always tliat sportiveness of lui- 
mour, that ' unwary pleasantry,' which 
Sirrne has depicted witli touches so con- 
ciliatory, but the darts of ridicule were 
frequently directed as the caprice of the 
instant surrrrestcd, or as tiie altercations of 
parties and of persons happened to kindle 
the restlessness of his spirit into interest 
or aversion. This, however, was not in- 
variably the case ; his wit (which is no 
unusual matter indeed) had always the 
start of his judi^ment, and would l(>ad him 
to the induljTencc of raillerv niiiforuily 
acute but often unaecompruiied with the 
least desire to wound. The sujipression 
of an arch and full-pointed bon-mot, from 
the dread of otlendin<T its object, the saj^e 
of Zurich very properly classes as a vir- 
tue on/i/ to he sota^-fit for ?»?. the Calendar 
of Saints ; if so. Burns must not be too 
severely dealt with tor beinnr rather de- 
ficient in it. He paid for his mischievous 
wit as dearly as any one could do. ' 'Twas 
no extravnijant arithmetic,' to say of him, 
as was said of Yoriek, that ' for every ten 
jokes he a^ot a hundred enemies:' but 
much allowance will be made bv a candid 



whom ' distress had spited with the world,' 
and which, unbounded in its intell(>ctual 
sallies and pursuits, continually experi- 
enced the curbs imjiosed by tlie wayward- 
ness of his fortune. The vivacity of his 
wishes and temper was indeed checked 
by almost habitual disappointments, which 
sat heavy on a heart that acknowledged 
the ruling passion of independence, with- 
out ever having been placed beyond the 
grasp of penury. His soul was never 
languid or inactive, and his genius was 
extinguished only witli the last spark of 
retreating life. His passions rendered 
him, according as tliey disclosed them- 
selv(^s in affection or antipathy, an object 
of enthusiastic attachment, or of decided 
enmity ; for he possessed none of that 
negative insipidity of cliara(;ter, whose 
love might be regarded with indillerence, 
or whose resentment could be considered 
with contempt. In this, it should seem, 
the temper of his associates took the tinc- 
ture from liis own ; for he acknowledged 
in the universe but two classes of objects, 
those of adoration the most fervent, or of 
aversion the most uncontrollable ; and it 
has been frequently a reproach to him, 
that, unsusceptible of indifference, often 
hating where he ought only to have de- 
spised, he alternately opened his lu^art and 
poured forth the treasures of his uiuier- 
standing to such as were incapable of ap- 
preciating the homage ; and elevated to 
the privileges of an adversary some who 
were unqualified in all respects for the 
honour of a contest so distinguished. 

" It is said that the celebrated Dr. John- 
son professed to ' love a good hater,' — a 
temperament that would have singularly 
adapttMl liiin to cherish a preposs(>ssion in 
favour of our bard, who perhaps fell but 
little short even of the surly Doctor in 
this (pialification, as long as the disposi- 
tion to ill-will continued; but the warmth 
of his ])assions was fortunately corrected 
by their versatility. He was sebUun, in- 
deed never, implacable in his resentments, 
and soinetimi^s, it has been alleged, not 
inviolably faithful in his engngements of 
friendship. Much, indeed, has been said 
about his inconstancy and caprice ; but I 
am inclined to believe that tliey origina- 
ted less in a levity of sentiment, than from 
an extreme impetuosity of feeling, which 
rendered him prompt to take umbrage ; 
and his sensations of pique, where he fan- 
cied he had discovered the traces of ne- 
glect, scorn, or unkindness, took their 



mind for the splenetic warmth of a spirit] measure of asperity from the overflowings 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



69 



of the opposite sentimont which preceded 
them, aiul whicii sohlom failed to regain 
its ascendency in his bosom on the return 
of cahner rejection. He was candid and 
manly in the avowal of his errors, and his 
avowal was a reparation. His nativeyieWe 
never forsaking him for a moment, the 
value of a frank acknowledgment was en- 
hanced tenfold towards a gimcrous mind, 
from its never being attended with ser- 
vility. His mind, organized only for the 
slrongerand more acute operations of the 
passioils, was impracticable to the efforts 
of superciliousness that would have de- 
pressed it into humility, and equally su- 
perior to the encroachments of venal sug- 
gestions that might have led him into tlie 
mazes of hypocrisy. 

" It has been observed, that he was far 
from averse to the incense of flattery, and 
could receive it tempered with less deli- 
cacy than might have been expected, as 
he seldom transgressed extravagantly in 
that way himself; where he paid a com- 
pliment, it might indeed claim the power 
of intoxication, as approbation from him 
was always an honest tribute from the 
warmth and sincerity of his heart. It has 
been sometimes represented by those who 
it should seem, had a view to depreciate, 
Ihough lhi>y could not \\ovte wholly toob- 
ecure that native brilliancy, which tlie pow- 
ers of this extraordinary man had invari- 
ably bestowed on every thing that came 
from his lips or pen, that the history of the 
Ayrshire plough-boy was an ingenious 
fiction, fabricated for the purposes of ob- 
taining the intorofft.s of the great, and en- 
hancing the merits of what required no 
foil. The Cotter's Saturday Jfiffht, Tarn 
o'Skanfer, and The J\lotintain Daisi/, be- 
sides a number of later productions, where 
the maturity of his genius will be readily 
traced, and which will be given to the 
public as soon as his friends have collect- 
ed and arranged them, speak sutTiciently 
for themselves; and had they fallen from 
a hand more dignified in the ranks of so- 
ciety than that of a peasant, they had, 
pr-rhaps, bentowed as unusual a grace 
there, as even in the humbler shade of 
rustic inspiration from whence they real- 
ly sprung. 



" To the obscure scene of Burns's edu- 
cation, and to the laborious, though ho- 
nournble station of rural industry, in 
which his parentage enrolled him, ahnost 
every 'nhabitant of the south of Scotland 
can g'Ve testimony His only surviving | t This deslination is now altered. (1800.i E 



brother, Gilbert Burns, now guides the 
ploughshare of his forefathers in Ayrshire, 
at a farm near Mauchline ;* and our poet's 
eldest son (a lad of nine years of age, 
whose early dispositions already prove 
him to be in some measure the inheritor 
of his father's talents as well as indigence) 
has been destined by his family to the 
humble employment of the loom.f 

" That Burns had received no classical 
education, and was acquainted with the 
Greek and Roman authors only through 
the medium of translations, is a fact of 
which all who were in the habits of con- 
versing with him might readily be con- 
vinced. I have, indeed, seldom observed 
him to be at a loss in conversation, unless 
where the dead languages and their wri- 
ters have been the subjects of discussion. 
When I have pressed him to tell me why 
he never applied himself to acquire the 
Latin, in particular, a language which his 
happy memory would have so soon ena- 
bled him to be master of, he used only to 
reply with a smile, that he had already 
learned all the Latin he desired to know, 
and that was omnia vincit amor ; a sen- 
tence, that from his writings and most fa- 
vourite pursuits, it should undoubtedly 
seem tiiat he was most thoroughly versed 
in: but I really believe his classic erudi- 
tion extended little, if any, further. 

" The penchant Burns had uniformly 
acknowledged for the festive pleasures of 
the table, and towards the fairer and soft- 
er objects of nature's creation, has been 
the rallying point from whence the at- 
tacks of his censors have been uniformly 
directed : and to these, it must be con- 
fessed, ho showed himself no stoic. His 
poetical pieces blend with alternate hap- 
piness of description, the frolic spirit of 
the flowing bowl, or melt the heart to the 
tender and impassioned sentiments in 
which beauty always taught him to pour 
forth his own. But who would wish to 
reprove the feelings he has consecrated 
with such lively touches of nature ^ And 
where is the rugged moralist who will 
pnvsuade us so far to ' chill the genial 
current of the soul,' as to regret that Ovid 
ever celebrated his Corinna, or that An- 
acreon sung beneath his vine .'' 



* This very respectable and very snpflrinr man Is now 
romovod xn Dumfriesshire. He rents lands on the 
estate of Closebum, and is a tenant of the venerablo 
Dr. Monteith, (leOO.) E. 



70 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



" I will not, however, undertake to be 
the ajiologist of the irregularities even of 
a man of genius, thongli I believe it is as 
certain that genius never was free from 
irregularities, as that their absolution 
may, in a great measure, be justly claim- 
ed, since it is perfectly evident that the 
world had continued very stationary in its 
intellectual acquirements, had it never 
given birth to anj' but men of plain sense. 
Evenness of conduct, and a due regard to 
the decorums of the world, have been so 
rarely seen to move hand in hand witli 
genius, that some liave gone as far as to 
say, though there T cannot wholly acqui- 
esce, that they arc even incompatible, be- 
sides the frailties that cast their shade 
over the splendour of superior merit, are 
more conspicuously glaring than where 
they are the attendants of mere mediocri- 
ty. It is only on the gem we are disturb- 
ed to see the dust : the pebble may be 
soiled, and we never regard it. The ec- 
centric intuitions of genius too often yield 
the soul to the wild effervescence of de- 
sires, always unbounded, and sometimes 
equally dangerous to the repose of others 
as fatal to its own. No wonder, then, if vir- 
tue herself be sometimes lost in the blaze 
of kindling animation, or that the calm mo- 
nitions of reason are not invariably found 
suilicient to fetter an imagination, which 
scorns the narrow limits and restrictions 
that would chain it to the level of ordina- 
ry minds. The child of nature, the child 
of sensibility, unschooled in the rigid pre- 
cepts of philosophy, too often unable to 
control the passions which proved a source 
of frequent errors and misfortunes to him, 
Burns made his own artless apology in 
language more impressive than all the 
argumentatory vindications in the world 
could do, in one of his own poems, where 
he delineates the gradual expansion of his 
mind to the lessons of the ' tutelary muse,' 
who concludes an address to her pupil, al- 
most unique for simplicity and beautiful 
poetry, with these lines : 

" I saw Ihy pulse's madd'ning play 
Wild send tliee pleasure's devious way; 
Misled by fancy's meteor ray 

By passion driven; 
But yet tlio lii;lit that led astray 

Was lifflit. from heaven"* 

" I have already transgressed beyond 
the bounds I had proposed to myself, on 
first committing this sketch to paper, 
which comprehends what at least I have 

" vide the Vision— Duan 2d 



been led to deem the leading features of 
Burns's mind and character : a literary 
critique I do not aim at ; mine is wholly 
fulfilled, if in these pages I have been 
able to delineate any of those strong traits, 
that distinguished him, of those talents 
which raised him from the plough, where 
he passed the bleak morning of his life, 
weaving his rude wreaths of poesy with 
the wild field-flowers that sprang around 
his cottage, to tliat enviable eminence of 
literary fame, where Scotland will long 
cherish his memory with delight and gra- 
titude ; and proudly remember, that be- 
neath her cold sky a genius was ripened, 
without care or culture, that would have 
done honour to cliinos more favourable to 
those luxuriances — that warmth of co- 
louring and fancy in which he so emi- 
nently excelled. 

" From several paragraphs I have no- 
ticed in the public prints, ever since the 
idea of sending this sketch to some one 
of them was formed I find jirivate ani- 
mosities have not yet subsisdcd, and that 
envy has not exhausted all her shafts. I 
still trust, however, that honest fame will 
be permanentlv affixed to Burns's charac- 
ter, which I think it will be fotmd he has 
merited by the candid and impartial among 
his countrymen. And where a recollec- 
tion of the imprudence that sullied hig 
brighter qualifications interpose, let the 
imperfections of all htnnan excellence be 
remembered at the same time, leaving 
those inconsistencies, which alternR.tely 
exalted his nature into the seraph, and 
sunk it again into the Tnan, to the tribu- 
nal which alone can investigate the laby- 
rinths of the human heart — 

' Where they alike in tromblini; hope rrpose, 
— The bosom of his father and his Ood.' 

Gray's Elegy 

" JJnnandale, Jlun-. 7, 1696 " 

After this account of the life and per- 
sonal character of Burns, it may be ex- 
pected tiiat some inquiry should be made 
into his literary merits. It will not, how- 
ever, be necessary to enter very minutely 
into this itivestigation. If fiction be, as 
some suppose, the soul of poetry, no one 
had ever less pretensions to the name 
of poet than Burns. Though he has dis- 
played great powers of imagination, yet 
the subjects on which he has written, are 
seldom, if ever, imaginary; his poem?, as 
well as his letters, may be considered a3 
the effusions of his sensibility, and the 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



71 



transcript of his own musings on the real 
incidents of hia humble life. If we add, 
that they also contn.in mot-t hapi)}' deliiu;- 
ations of tiie rharuotors, manners, and 
scenery that presented tli(;niselves to his 
observation, we shall inckuif! almost all 
the subjects of his muse. His writings 
may, tiierefore, be regarded as atfording 
a great part of the data on which our ac- 
count of liis personal character has been 
founded; and most of the observations we 
have applied to the man, are applicable, 
with little variation, to the poet. 

The impression of his birth, and of his 
original station in life, was not more evi- 
dent on his form and manners, than on 
his poetical productions. The incidents 
which form the siibjects of his poems, 
though some of them highly interesting, 
and susceptible of poetical imagery, are 
incidents in the life of a peasant who takes 
no pains to disguise the lowliness of his 
condition, or to throw into shade the cir- 
cumstances attending it, which more fee- 
ble or more artificial minds would have 
endeavoured to conceal. The same rude- 
ness and inattention appears in the for- 
mation of his rhymes, which are frequent- 
ly incorrect, while the measure in which 
many of the poems are written, has little 
of the pomp or harmony of modern versi- 
fication, and is indeed to an Englisli ear, 
strange and uncouth. The greater part 
of his earlier poems are written in the di- 
alect of his country, which is obscure, if 
not unintelligible to Englishmen ; and 
which, though it still adheres more or less 
to the speech of almost every Scotchman, 
all the polite and the ambitious are now 
endeavouring to banish from their tongues 
as well as their writings. The use of it 
in composition naturally therefore calls 
up ideas of vulgarity in the mind. These 
singularities are increased by the charac- 
ter of the poet, who delights to express 
himself with a simplicity that approaches 
to nakedness, and with an unmeasured 
energy that often alarms delicacy, and 
sometimes offends taste. Hence, in ap- 
proaching him, the first impression is per- 
haps repulsive: there is an air of coarse- 
ness about him which is difficultly recon- 
ciled with our established notions of po- 
etical excellence. 

As the reader however becomes better 
acquainted with the poet, the eflccts of 
his peculiarities lessen. He perceives in 
his poems, even on the lowest subjects, 
expressions of sentiment, and deliueations 



of manners, which arc highly interesting. 
The scenery lie describes is evidently ta- 
ken from real life ; the characters he in- 
troduces, and the incidents he relates, 
have the impression of nature and truth. 
His humour, though wild and unbridled, 
is irresistibly amusing, and is somctimea 
heightened in its effects by the introduc- 
tion of emotions of tenderness, with which 
genuine humour so happily unites. Nor 
is this the extent of his power. The rea- 
der, as he examines farther, discovers 
that the poet is not confined to the de- 
scriptive, the humorous, or the pathetic ; 
he is found, as occasion offers, to rise with 
ease into tlie terrible and the sublime. 
Every where he appears devoid of arti- 
fice performing what he attempts with 
little apparent effort ; and impressing on 
the offspring of his fancy the stamp of his 
understanding. The reader, capable of 
forming a just estimate of poetical talents, 
discovers in these circumstances marks 
of uncommon genius, and is willing to in- 
vestigate more minutely its nature and its 
claims to originality. This last point we 
shall examine first. 

That Burns had not the advantages of 
a classsical education, or of any degree of 
acquaintance with the Greek or Roman 
writers in their original dress, has appear- 
ed in the history of his life. He acquired 
indeed some knowledge of the French lan- 
guage, but it does not appear that he was 
ever much conversant in French litera- 
ture, nor is there any evidence of his 
having derived any of his poetical stores 
from that source. With the English clas- 
sics he became well acquainted in the 
course of his life, and the eft'ects of this 
acquaintance are observable in his latter 
productions ; but the character and style 
of his poetry were formed very early, 
and the model which he followed, in as 
far as he can be said to have had one, is 
to be sought for in the works of the po- 
ets who have written in the Scottish dia- 
lect — in the works of such of them more 
especially, as are familiar to the peasantry 
of Scotland. Some observations on these 
may form a proper introduction to a more 
particular examination of the poetry of 
Burns. The studies of the Editor in this 
direction are indeed very recent and very 
imperfect. It would have been impru- 
dent for him to have entered on this sub- 
ject at all, but for the kindness of Mr. 
Ram"?ay of Ochtortyre, whose assistance 
he is proud to acknowledge, and to whom 
the reader must ascrfoe whatever is of 



72 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



any value in the following imperfect 
sketch of literary compositions in the 
Scottish idiom. 

It is a circumstance not a little curious, 
and which docs not seem to be satisfac- 
torily explained, that in the thirteenth 
century, tlic language of the two Britisli 
nations, if at all different, differed only in 
the dialect, the Gaelic in the one, like 
the Wekh and Armoric in the other, be- 
ing confined to the mountainous districts.* 
Tlic Englisii under the Edwards, and tl)e 
Scots under Wallace and Bruce, spoke 
the same language. We may observe 
also, that in Scotland the history of poetry 
ascends to a period nearly as remote as 
in England. Barbour, and Blind Harry, 
James the First, Dunbar, Douglas and 
Lindsay, wlio lived in the fourteenth, fif- 
teenth, and sixteenth centuries, were co- 
eval with the fathers of poetry in Eng- 
land ; and in the opinion of Mr. Whar- 
ton, not inferior to them in genius or in 
composition. Though the language of 
t!ie two countries gradually deviated 
from each other during this period, yet 
the difierence on the whole was not con- 
eiderable ; not perhaps greater than be- 
tween the dillcreut dialects of the ditt'er- 
ent parts of England in our own time. 

At the death of James the Fifth, in 
1542, the language of Scotland was in a 
flourishing condition, wanting only wri- 
ters in prose equal to those in verse. 
Two circumstances, propitious on the 
whole, ojjerated to prevent this. The 
first was the passion of the Scots for com- 
position in Latin ; and the second, the 
accession of James the Sixth to the Eng- 
lish throne. It may easily be imagined, 
that if Buchanan had devoted his admi- 
rable talents, even in part, to the culti- 
vations of his native tongue, as was done 
by the revivers of letters in Italy, he 
would have left compositions in that lan- 
guage which might have incited other 
men of genius to have followed his exam- 
ple, f and given duration to the language 
itself. The union of tlie two crowns in the 
person of James, overthrew all reasonable 
expectation of this kind. That monarch, 
seated on tlie Englisli throne, would no 
longer suffer himself to be addressed in 
the rude dialect in A^hich the Scottish 



♦Historical Essay on Scottish Song, p. 20, by M. 
Ritson. 

t « ^. The Authors of the Delicto: Poetarum Scoto 
nim, <$<!. 



clergy had so often insulted his dignity. 
He encouraged liatin or English only, 
both of whicli lie prided himself on wri- 
ting with purity, though he iiiniself never 
could acquire the English pronunciation, 
but spoke with a Scottish idiom and into- 
nation to the last. — Scotsmen of talents 
declined writing in their native language, 
wiiich they knew was not acceptable to 
their learned and pedantic monarch ; and 
at a time when national prejudice and 
enmity prevailed to a great degree, they 
disdained to study the niceties of the Eng- 
lish tongue, tiiough of so much easier ac- 
quisition than a dead language. Lord 
Stirling and Drummond of Hawtliorndcn, 
the only Scotsmen who wrote poetry in 
those times, were exceptions. They 
studied tlie language of England and com- 
posed in it witli precision and elegance. 
They were however the last of theii 
countrymen who deserved to be consider- 
ed as poets in that century. The muses 
of Scotland sunk into silence, and did not 
again raise their voices for a period of 
eighty years. 

To what causes are we to attribute this 
extreme depression among a people com- 
paratively learned, enterprising, and in- 
genious? Siiall we impute it to the fa- 
naticism of the covenanters, or to the ty- 
ranny of the house of Stuart, after theii 
restoration to tlie throne ? Doubtless 
these causes operated, but they seem un^ 
equal to account for the effect. In Eng- 
land, similar distractions and oppression 
took place, yet poetry flourished there in 
a remarkable degree. During this period, 
Cowley, and Waller, and Dryden sung, 
and Milton raised his strain of unparallel- 
ed grandeur. To the causes already men- 
tioned, another must be added, in ac- 
counting for the torpor of Scottish litera- 
ture — the want of a proper vehicle for 
men of genius to employ. The civil wars 
had frigiitened away the Latin Muses, and 
no standard had been established of the 
Scott isli tongue, which was deviating still 
farther from the pure English idiom. 

The revival of literature in Scotland 
may be dated from the establishment of 
the union, or rather from the extinction 
of the rebellion in 1715. The nations be- 
ing finally incorporated, it was clearly 
seen that their tongues must in the end 
incorywrate also ; or rather indeed tliat 
the Scottish language must degenerate 
into a provincial idiom, to be avoided by 
those who would aim at distinction in 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



73 



lottcrs, or rise to eminence in tlic united 
legislature. 

Soon after this, a band of men of genius 
apj)eared, who studied tlio lOiiglish clas- 
sics, and imitated their beauties, in the 
Eame manner as they studied tlie classics 
of(Jreeceand Rome. They had admi- 
rable models of composition latcdy pre- 
sented to them by the writers of the reign 
of Queen Anne; particularly in tlie peri- 
odical .papers published by Steele, Addi- 
son, arul their associated friends, which 
circulated widely through Scotland, and 
•lill'used every where a taste for purity of 
■style and sentiment, and for critical dis- 
quisition. At length the Scottish writers 
Bucceeded in English comi)osition, and a 
union was formed of the literary talents, 
as well as of the legislatures of the two 
nations. On this occasion the poets took 
the lead. While Henry Home,* Dr. Wal- 
lace, and their learned associates, were 
only laying in their intellectual stores, 
and studying to clear themselves of tlieir 
Scottish idioms, Thomson, Mallet, and 
Hamilton of Bangour had made their ap- 
pearance before the public, and been en- 
rolled on the list of English poets. The 
writers in prose followed a numerous and 
powerful band, and poured their ample 
stores into the general stream of British 
literature. Scotland possessed her four 
universities before the acc(!ssion of James 
to the English throne. Immediately be- 
fore the union, she acquired her parochial 
schools. These establishments combining 
happily together, made the elements of 
knowhnlge of easy acquisition, and ])re- 
eented a direct path, by which the ardent 
student might be carried along into the 
recesses of science or learning. As civil 
broils ceased, and faction and prejudice 
gradually died away, a wider field wjis 
opened to literary ambition, and tlie in- 
fluence of the Scottish institutions for in- 
struction, on the productions of the press, 
became more and more apparent. 

It seems indeed probable, that the es- 
tablishment of the parochial schools pro- 
duced nft'ects on the rural muse of Scot- 
land also, whi(;h have not hitherto been 
suspected, and which, though less splen- 
did in Ihf'ir nature, are not however to be 
regarded as trivial, whether we consider 
the happiness or the morals of the people. 

There is some reason to believe, that 

* Iiord Kaimes. 



the original inhabitants of the British islea 
possessed a peculiar and interesting spe- 
cies of music, which being banished from 
the plains by the successive invasions of 
the Saxons, Danes, and Normans, was 
preserved with the luitive race, in the 
wilds of Ireland and in the mountains of 
Scotland and Wales. The Irish, the Scot- 
tish, and the Welsh nmsic diiliir, indeed, 
from each other, but the dillerence may 
be considered as in dialect only, and pro- 
bably produced by the influence of time, 
and like the diflercnt dialects of their 
connnon language. If this conjecture bo 
true, the Scottish nuisic must be more 
immediately of a Highland origin, and 
the Lowland tunes, thop.gh now of a cha- 
racter somewhat distinct, must have de- 
scended from the mountains in remote 
ages. Whatever crtulit may be given to 
conjectures, evidently involved in great 
uncertainty, there can be no doubt that 
the Scottish peasantry have been long in 
possession of a number of songs and bal- 
lads composed in their native dial(;ct, an^ 
sung to their native music. The subjects 
of these compositions were such as most 
interested the simple inhabitants, and in 
the succession of time varied probably as 
the condition of society varied. Durinrr 
the separation and the hostility of the two 
nations, these songs and ballads, as far as 
our imperfect documents enable us to 
judge, were chiefly warlike; such as the 
lluntis of Cheviot^ and the Jialtfe of I far- 
loin. After the union of the two crowns, 
when a certain degree of peace and of 
tranquillity took place, the rural muse of 
Scotland breathed in softer accents. "In 
the want of real evid(mce njspecting the 
history of our songs," says Mr. Ramsay of 
Ochtertyre, " recourse may be had to 
conjecture. One would be disposed to 
think that the most beautiful of the Scot- 
tish tunes were clothed with new words 
after the union of the crowns. The in- 
jiabitants of the borders, who had former- 
ly bncm warriors from choice, and hus- 
bandmen from necessity, either quitted 
the country, or were transformed into 
real shtqdierds, easy in tlieir circumstan- 
ces, and satisfied with their lot. Some 
sparks of that spirit of chivalry for which 
they are celebrated by Froissart, remain- 
ed, sufficient to inspire elevation of senti- 
ment and gallantry towards the fair sex. 
The familiarity and kindness which had 
long subsisted between the gcnitry and 
the peasantry, could not all at once be 
obliterated, and this connexion tended to 
sweeten rural life. In this state of inno- 



74 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



cencc, ease and tranquillity of mind, the 
ioveof poetry and music would still main- 
tain its ground, tlioug'h it would natural- 
ly assume a form conirenial to the more 
peaceful state of society. The minstrels, 
ivhose metrical tales used once to rouse 
the borderers like the trumpet's sound, 
nad been by an order of the legislature 
(in 1570,) classed with rogues and vaga- 
bonds, and attempted to be suppressed. 
Knox and his disciples inlluenced the 
Scottish parliament, but contended in 
vain witli her rural muse. Amidst our 
Arcadian vales, probably on the banks of 
the TwcimI, or some of its tributary 
streams, one or more original geniuses 
may have arisen, who were destined to 
give a new turn to the taste of their coun- 
trymen. They would see that the events 
and pursuits which chequer private life 
were the proper subjects for popu- 
lar poetry. Love, which had formerly 
held a divided sway with glory and am- 
bition, became now the master passion of 
the soul. To portray in lively and deli- 
cate colours, tliough with a hasty hand, 
the hopes and fears that agitate the breast 
of the love-sick swain, or forlorn maiden, 
ailbrds ample scope to the rural poet. 
Love-songs of which Tibullus himself 
would not have been ashamed, might be 
composed by an uneducated rustic with a 
sliglit tincture of letters ; or if in these 
songs, the character of the rustic be some- 
times assumed, the truth of character, and 
the language of nature, are preserved. 
With unaflectod simplicity and tender- 
ness, topics are urged, most likely to sof- 
ten the heart of a cruel and coy mistress, 
or to regain a tickle lover. Even in such 
as are of a melancholy cast, a ray of hope 
breaks through, and dispels the "deep and 
settled gloom which characterizes the 
sweetest of the lligliland /wmrrn-.?, or vo- 
cal airs. Nor are these songs all plain- 
tive ; many of them are lively and humor- 
ous, and some appear to us coarse and in- 
delicate. They seem, however, genuine 
descriptions of the manni'rs of an ener- 
getic nnd sequestered pi-ople in their hours 
of mirth and festivity, though in their por- 
traits some objects are brought into open 
view, which more fastidious painters would 
have thrown into shade. 

" As those rural poets sunjr for amuse- 
ment, not for gain, their eirusions si^ldom 
exceeded a love-sonn;, or a ballad of sa- 
tire or liumour, wiiieh, like the works of 
the elder minstrels, were st^ldom commit- 
ted to writing, but treasured up in the 



memory of their friends and neighbours. 
Neither known to the learned, nor patro- 
nised by the, great, these rustic bards liv- 
ed and died in obscurity ; and by a strange 
fatality, their story, and even their very 
names have been forgotten.* When pro- 
per models for pastoral songs were pro- 
duced, there would be no want of imita- 
tors. To succeed in this species of com- 
position, soundness of understanding, and 
sensibility of heart were more requisite 
than nights of imagination or j)omp of 
numbers. Great changes have certainly 
taken place in Scottish song-v/riling, 
tliough we cannot trace the steps of this 
change ; and few of the piecer, ; dmircd 
in Queen Mary's time are now la be dis- 
covered in modern collections, li is pos- 
sible, though not probable, thattliC music 
may have remained nearly tlie same, 
though the words to the tunes were en- 
tirely ncw-modelled."f 

These conjectures are highly ingenious. 
It cannot however, be presumed, that tho 
state of ease and tranquillity described by 
Mr. Ramsay, took place among the Scot- 
tish peasantry immediately on the unioD 
of the crowns, or indeed during the great- 
er part of the seventeenth century. 
The Scottish nation, through all its ranks, 
was deeply agitated by the civil wars, and 
the religious persecutions which succeed- 
ed each other in that disastrous period ; 
it was not till after the revolution in 
l(j8n, and the subsequent establishment 
of their beloved form of church govern- 
ment, that the peasantry of the Lowlands 
enjoyed comparative repose ; and it is 
since that jjoriod, that a great number of 
the most admired Scottish songs have 
been produced, though the tunes to which 
they are sung, arc in general of much 
greater antiquity. It is not unreasona- 
ble to suppose that tho peace and securi- 
ty derived from the Revolution and the 
Union, produced a favourable change on 
the rustic poetry of Scotland ; and it can 
scarcely be doubted, that the institution 
of parish-schools in 16i>t>, by which a cer- 
tain degree of instruction was diffused 

* In the Pepys OoIIcition, there are a lew Scottish 
soii!.'sof the last century, but tlie names ot' the antliors 
are not preserved. 

t Exirnet oCa letter l"roni Mr Rnmsny of Ochtcrtyra 
10 the Eiiilor, Sept. 11, 17!)!t— In tho I!eo, vol. ii. is a 
ccitiMniiiiieation lo Mr Kainsay, nniler tlio si(rn:ilure of 
J Unncole, vvliieh enters irito this subject somewhat 
mure at larjie. In thai paper he gives his reasons for 
(|iiesii()iiini! the aniiquity of manv of llie most celebrated 
Scollish songs. 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



75 



universally among the peasantry, contri- 
buted to tliis liappy eflbct. 

Soon after this appeared Allan Ram- 
say, the Scottish Theopritiis. He was 
born on the high mountains that divide 
Clydesdale and Annandale, in a small 
hamlet by the banks of Glmgonar, a 
stream which descends inte che Clyde. 
The ruins of this hamlet are still shown 
to the inquiring traveller.* He was the 
eon of a peasant, and j)robably received 
such instruction as his parish-school be- 
stowed, and the poverty of his parents 
admitted. f Ramsay made his appearance 
in Edinburgh in the beginning of the pre- 
sent century, in the liumble character of 
an apprentice to a barber, or peruke-ma- 
ker ; he was then fourteen or fifteen 
years of age. By degrees he acquired 
notice for his social disposition, and his 
talent for the composition of verses in the 
Scottish idiom ; and, changing his pro- 
fession for that of a bookseller, he be- 
came intimate with many of the literary, 
as well as of the gay and fashionable cha- 
racters of his time. J Having published 
a volume of poems of his own in 1721, 
which was favourably received, he un- 
dertook to make a collection of ancient 
Scottish poems, under the title of the Ever- 
Green, and was afterwards encouraged to 
present to the world a collection of Scot- 
tish songs. " From what sources he pro- 
cured them," says Mr. Ramsay of Och- 
tertyre, " whether from tradition or ma- 
nuscript, is uncertain. As in the Ever- 
Green he made some rash attempts to 
improve on the originals of his ancient 
poems, he probably used still greater free- 
dom with the songs and ballads. The 
truth cannot, however, be known on this 
point, till manuscripts of the songs printed 
by him, more ancient than the present 
century, shall be produced ; or access be 

* See Campbell's History of Poetry in Scotland, p. 185. 
f The father of Ramsay was, it is said, a workman 

in the jpadinines of the Earl of Ilopeton, at Lead-hills. 
The workmen in those mines at present are of a very 
superior character to miners in general. They have 
only six hours of labour in the day, and have time for 
rcadin;; They have a common library, supported by 
contribiilion, containinj; several thonsand volumes. 
When this was instituted t have not learned. These 
miners are said to be of a very sober and moral cha- 
racter: Allan Ramsay, when very you n;?, is supposed 
to have been a washer of ore in these mines. 

* " He was coeval with Joseph Mitchell, and his club 
of small wits, who about 1719, published a very poor 
miscellany, to which Dr. Young, the author of the 
JVi^ht Thoughts prefi.xed a copy of verses." K.v- 
tract of a letter from Mr. Ramsay of Ochtertyre to 
the Editor 

S 2 



obtained to his own papers, if they are 
still in existence. To several tunes which 
either wanted words, or had words that 
were improper or imperfect, he, or his 
friends, adapted verses worthy of the me- 
lodies they accompani'^d, worthy indeed 
of the golden age. These verses were 
perfectly intelligible to every rustic, yet 
justly admired by persons of taste, who 
regarded them as the genuine ofi'spring 
of the pastoral muse. In some respects 
Ramsay had advantages not possessed 
by poets writing in the Scottish dialect 
in our days. Songs in the dialect of 
Cumberland or Lancashire could never 
be popular, because these dialects have 
never been spoken by persons of fashion. 
But till the middle of the present century, 
every Scotsman from the peer to the pea- 
sant, spoke a truly Doric language. It 
is true the English moralists and poets 
were by this time read by every person 
of condition, and considered as the stan- 
dards for polite composition. But, as na- 
tional prejudices were still strong, the 
busy, the learned, the gay, and the fair, 
continued to speak their native dialect, 
and that with an elegance and poignancy, 
of which Scotsmen of the present day can 
have no just notion. I am old enough to 
have conversed with Mr. Spittal, of Leu- 
chat, a scholar and a man of fashion, who 
survived all the members of the Union 
Parliament, in which he had a seat. His 
pronunciation and phraseology differed 
as much from the common dialect, as the 
language of St. James's from that of 
Thames-street. Had we retained a court 
and parliament of our own, the tongues 
of the two sister-kingdoms would indeed 
have differed like the Castilian and Por- 
tuguese ; but each would have had its 
own classics, not in a single branch, but 
in the whole circle of literature. 

" Ramsay associated with the men of 
wit and fashion of his day, and several of 
them attempted to write poetry in his 
manner. Persons too idle or too dissipa- 
ted to think of compositions that required 
much exertion, succeeded very happily in 
making tender sonnets to favourite tunes 
in compliment to their mistresses, and, 
transforming themselves into impassion- 
ed shepherds, caught the language of the 
characters they assumed. Thus, about 
the year 1731, Robert Crawford of Auchi- 
names, wrote the modern song of Tweed 
Side,* which has been so much admired. 

* Beginning, " What beauties does Flora digcloee'" 



76 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



In 1743, Sir Gilbert Elliot, the first of 
our lawyers who both spoke and wrote 
English elegantly, composed, in the cha- 
racter of a love-sick swain, a beautiful 
song, beginning. My sheep I neglected, I 
lost my sheep-hook, on the marriage of his 
mistress. Miss Forbes, with Ronald Craw- 
ford. And about twelve years after- 
wards, the sister of Sir Gilbert wrote the 
ancient words to the tune of the Flowers 
of the Forest,* and supposed to allude to 
llie battle of J'lowden. In spite of the 
double rhyme, it is a sweet, and though 
in some parts allegorical, a natural ex- 
pression of national sorrow. The more 
modern words to the same tune, beginning, 
1 have seen the smiling' of fortune beguiling; 
were written long before by Mrs. Cock- 
burn, a woman of great wit, who outlived 
all the first group of literati of tliQ pre- 
sent century, all of whom were very fond 
of her. I was delighted with her com- 
pany, though, when I saw her, she was 
very old. Much did she know that is 
now lost." 

In addition to these instances of Scot- 
tish songs produced in the earlier part of 
the present century, may be mentioned 
the ballad of Hardiknute, by Lady Ward- 
law ; the ballad of Willinm and Marga- 
ret ; and the song entitled The Birks of 
Endermay, by Mallet ; the love-song, be- 
ginning, For ever. Fortune, wilt thou prove, 
produced by the youthful muse of Thom- 
son ; and the exquisite pathetic ballad. 
The Braes of Yarrow, by Hamilton of Ban- 
gour. On the revival of letters in Scot- 
land, subsequent to the Union, a very 
general taste seems to have prevailed for 
the national songs and music. " For 
many years," says Mr. Ramsay, " the 
singing of songs was the great delight of 
the higher and middle order of the people, 
as well as of the peasantry ; and though 
a taste for Italian music has interfered 
with this amusement, it is still very pre- 
valent. Between forty and fifty years 
ago, the common people were not only 
exceedingly fond of songs and ballads, 
but of metrical history. Often have I, in 
my cheerful morn of youth, listened to 
them with delight, when reading or re- 
citing the exploits of Wallace and Bruce 
against the f^oidhrons. Lord Hailes was 
wont to call Blind Harry their Bible, he 
being their great favourite next the Scrip- 
tures. When, therefore, one in the vale 

* Rpginning, "I have heard a lilting atourewes- 
niilking." 



of life, felt the first emotions of genius, 
he wanted not models sui generis. But 
though the seeds of poetry were scatter- 
ed with a plentiful hand among the Scot- 
tish peasantry, the product was probably 
like that of pears and apples — of a thou- 
sand that spring up, nine hundred and 
fifty are so bad as to set the teeth on 
edge ; forty-five or more are passable and 
useful ; and the rest of an exquisite fla- 
vour. Allan Ramsay and Burns are 
wildings of this last description. They 
had the example of the elder Scottish po- 
ets ; they were not without the aid of the 
best English writers ; and what was of 
still more importance, they were no stran- 
gers to the book of nature, and the book 
of God." 

From this general view, it is apparent 
that Allan Ramsay may be considered as 
in a great measure the reviver of the ru- 
ral poetry of his country. His collection 
of ancient Scottish poems, under the 
name of The Ever-Green, his collection 
of Scottish songs, and his own poems, the 
principal of which is the Gentle Shepherd, 
have been universally read among the 
peasantry of his country, and have in 
some degree superseded the adventures 
of Bruce and Wallace, as recorded by 
Barbour and Blind Harry. Burns was 
well acquainted with all these. He had 
also before him the poems of Fergusson 
in the Scottish dialect, which have been 
produced in our own times, and of which 
it will be necessary to give a short ac- 
count. 

Fergusson was born of parents who had 
it in their power to procure him a liberal 
education, a circumstance, however, wliich 
in Scotland implies no very high rank in 
society. From a well written and appa- 
rently authentic account of his life,* we 
learn that he spent six years at the schools 
of Edinburgh and Dundee, and several 
years at the universities of Edinburgh and 
St. Andrews. It appears that he was at 
one time destined for the Scottish church; 
but as he advanced towards manhood, he 
renounced that intention, and at Edin 
burgh entered the office of a writer to the 
signet, a title which designates a separate 
and higher order of Scottish attorneys. 
Fergusson had sensibility of mind, a warm 
and generous heart, and talents for socie- 

* In the supplement lo the " Encyclopaedia Britan 
nica." Scealso, " Canipbell's Introduction to the His- 
tory of" Poetry in Scotland," p. 238. 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



77 



ty of the most attractive kind. To such 
a man no situation could be more danger- 
ous than that in which he was placed. 
The excesses into which he was led, im- 
paired his feeble constitution, and he sunk 
under them in the month of October, 1771, 
in his 23d or 24th year. Burns was not 
acquainted with the poems of this youth- 
ful genius when he himself began to write 
poetry ; and when he first saw them he 
had renounced the muses. But while he 
resided in the town of Irvine, meeting 
with Fergusson's Scotlish Poems, he in- 
forms us that he " strung his lyre anew 
with emulating vigour."* Touched by 
the sympathy originating in kindred ge- 
nius, and in the forebodings of similar for- 
tune, Burns regarded Fergusson with a 
partial and an affectionate admiration. 
Over his grave he erected a monument, 
as has already been mentioned ; and his 
poems he has, in several instances, made 
the subjects of his imitation. 

From this account of the Scottish po- 
ems known to Burns, those who are ac- 
quainted with them will see that they are 
chiefly humorous or pathetic ; and under 
one or other of these descriptions most of 
his own poems will class. Let us com- 
pare him with his predecessors under each 
of these points of view, and close oui ex- I 
amination with a few general M^icr/a 
tions. 

It has frequently been observed, that 
Scotland has produced, comparatively 
speaking, few writers who have excelled 
in humour. But this observation is true 
only when applied to those who have con- 
tinued to reside in their own country, and 
have confined themselves to composition 
in pure English ; and in these circum- 
stances it admits of an easy explanation. 
The Scottish poets, who have written in 
the dialect of Scotland, have been at all 
times remarkable for dwelling on subjects 
of humour, in which indeed many of them 
have excelled. It would be easy to show, 
that the dialect of Scotland having be- 
come provincial, is now scarcely suited to 
the more elevated kinds of poetry. If we 
may believe that the poem of Christis 
Kirk of the Grene was written by James 
the First of Scotland, f this accomplished 

* See p. 15' 

t Notwilhstanding the ovidence produced on tliis sub- 
ject by Mr. Tytler, the Editor acknowledges his being 
somewhat of a sceptic on this point Sir David Dal- 
ryinple inclines to the opinion that it was wriuen by 



monarch, who had received an English 
education under the direction of Henry 
the Fourth, and who bore arms under his 
gallant successor, gave the model on which 
the greater part of the humorous produc- 
tions of the rustic muse of Scotland has 
been formed. Christis Kirk of the Grene 
was reprinted by Ramsay, somewhat mo- 
dernized in the orthography, and two can- 
toes were added by him, in which he at- 
tempts to carry on the design. Hence the 
poem of King James is usually printed in 
Ramsay's works. The royal bard de- 
scribes, in the first canto, a rustic dance, 
and afterwards a contention in archery, 
ending in an afliray. Ramsay relates the 
restoration of concord, and the renewal 
of the rural sports, with the humours of a 
coimtry wedding. Though each of the 
poets describes the manners of his respec- 
tive age, yet in the whole piece there ia 
a very sufficient uniformity; a striking 
proof of the identity of character in the 
Scottish peasantry at the two periods, dis- 
tant from each other three hundred years 
It is an honourable distinction to this bo- 
dy of men, that their character and man- 
ners, very little embellished, have been 
found to be susceptible of an amusing and 
interesting species of poetry ; and it must 
appear not a little curious, that the single 
nation of modern Europe, which possess- 
es an original rural poetry, should have 
received the model, followed by their rus- 
tic bards, from the monarch on the throne. 

The two additional cantoes to Christis 
Kirk of the Grene, written by Ramsay, 
though objectionable in point of delicacy, 
are among the happiest of his productions. 
His chief excellence, indeed, lay in the 
description of rural characters, incidents, 
and scenery ; for he did not possess any 
very high powers either of imagination or 
of understanding. He was well acquaint- 
ed with the peasantry of Scotland, their 
lives and opinions. The subject was in a 
great measure new ; his talents were equal 
to the subject; and he has shown that it 
may be happily adapted to pastoral poe- 
try. In his Gentle Shepherd the charac- 
ters are delineations from nature, the de- 
scriptive parts are in the genuine style of 
beautiful simplicity, the passions and af- 
fections of rural life are finely portrayed, 
and the heart is pleasingly interested in 

his snccessor, James the Fifth. There are difficnities 
attending this snpposition also. But on the subject of 
Scottish Antiquities, the Editor is an incompetent 
judge. 



715 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



the happiness that is bestowed on inno- 
cence and virtue. Throughout the whole 
there is an air of reality which the most 
careless reader cannot but perceive ; and 
in fact no poem ever perhaps acquired so 
high a reputation, in which truth received 
so little embellisiiment from the imagina- 
tion. In his pastoral songs, and in his 
"ural tales, Ramsay appears to less ad- 
vantage indeed, but still with considera- 
ble attraction. The story of the Monk 
and the Millar's TFife, though somewhat 
licentious, may rank with the happiest 
productions of Prior or La Fontaine. But 
when he attempts subjects from higher 
life, and aims at pure English composition, 
he is feeble and uninteresting, and seldom 
ever reaches mediocrity.* Neither are 
his familiar epistles and elegies in the 
Scottish dialect entitled to much approba- 
tion. Though Fergusson had higher pow- 
ers of imagination than Ramsay, his ge- 
nius was not of the highest order ; nor did 
his learning, which was considerable, im- 
prove his genius. His poems written in 
pure English, in which he often follows 
classical models, thongh superior to the 
English poems of Ramsay, seldom rise 
above mediocrity ; but in those composed 
in the Scottish dialect he is often very 
successful. He was in general, however, 
less happy than Ramsay in the subjects of 
his niase. As he spent the greater part 
of his life in Edinburgh, and wrote for his 
amusement in the intervals of business or 
dissipation, his Scottish poems are chiefly 
founded on the incidents of a town life, 
which, though they are susceptible of hu- 
mour, do not admit of those delineations 
of scenery and manners, which vivify the 
rural poetry of Ramsay, and which so 
agreeably amuse the fancy and interest 
the heart. The town-eclogues of Fer- 
gusson, if we may so denominate them, 
are however faithful to nature, and often 
distinguished by a very liappy vein of hu- 
mour. His poems entitled. The Daft 
Days, The Kind's Birth-dnt/ in Edin- 
btir<j,-h, Leith Races, and The Hallow Fair, 
will justify this character. In these, par- 
ticularly in the last, he imitated Christis 
Kirk of the Grene, as Ramsay had done 
before him. His Addrens to the Tronkirk 
Bell is an exquisite piece of humour, 
which Burns has scarcely excelled. In 
appreciatuig the genius of Fergusson, it 
ought to be recollected, that his poems 
arp the careless effusions of an irregular, 
though amiable young man, who wrote 

• See " The Morning Interview," tc 



for the periodical papers of the day, and 
who died in early youth. Had his life 
been prolonged under happier circum- 
stances of fortune, he would probably have 
risen to much higher reputation. He might 
have excelled in rural poetry ; for though 
his professed pastorals on the established 
Sicilian model, are stale and uninterest- 
ing, The Farmer's In^'le,* which may be 
considered as a Scottish pastoral, is the 
happiest of all his productions, and cer- 
tainly was the archetype of the Colter's 
Saturday J^''ight. Fergusson, and nwre 
especially Burns, have shown that the 
character and manners of the peasantry of 
Scotland of the present times, are as well 
adapted to poetry, as in the days of Ram- 
say, or of the author of Christis Kirk of 
the Grene. 

The humour of Burns is of a richer vein 
than that of Ramsay or Fergusson, both 
of whom, as he himself informs us, he had 
" frequently in his eye, but rather with a 
view to kindle at their flame, than to ser- 
vile imitation."! His descriptive powers, 
whether the objects on which they are 
employed be comic or serious, animate or 
inanimate, are of the highest order. A 
superiority of this kind is essential to 
every species of poetical excellence. In 
one of his earlier poems, his plan seems 
to be to inculcate a lesson of contentment 
in the lower classes of society, by showing 
that their superiors are neither much bet- 
ter nor happier than themselves ; and 
this he chooses to execute in a form of a 
dialogue between two dogs. He intro- 
duces this dialogue by an account of the 
persons and characters of the speakers. 
The first, whom he has named Ca:sar^ is 
a dog of condition : 

" His locked, letter'd, braw brass collar, 
Shovv'd liim tlie gentleman and scholar." 

High-bred though he is, he is however 
full of condescension : 

" At kirk or market, mill or smiddifi, 
Nae tawted tyke, tho, e'er sae duddie, 
But he wad stiiwn't. as glad to see him, 
Jlnd stroan't on staves an' hilhicks wi' him." 

The other, Luath, is a " ploughman's col- 
lie, but a cur of a good heart and a souno 
understanding. 

" His honest, sonsie, baws'nt face, 
Ay gat him friends in ilka place; 



*The farmer's fire-side. 



t See Appendbt 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



79 



iris hrcast was white, his towsie baclt 
VVenl clad wi' coat o' glossy blacli. 
His gawcic tail, wi' upward curl, 
Hung o'er his hurdics wi' a saurl." 

Never were twa dogs so exquisitely de- 
lineated. Tlicir gambols before they sit 
down to moralize, are described with an 
equal degree of happiness ; and through 
the whole dialogtie, the character, as well 
as the different condition of the two speak- 
ers, is kept in view. The speech oCLuaih, 
in which he enumerates the comforts of 
the poor; gives the following account of 
their merriment on the first day of the 
year ; 

' That merry day tlie year begins, 
They bar the door on frosty wimls ; 
Tlie nappy rccits wi' mantling roam, 
And slit'ds a lioart-inspiring steam ; 
Tlie luntin pipe, and sncesliin mill, 
Are handed round wi' richtguid- will 
Tlie cantie aiild folks crackin crouse, 
The young aiios rantin thro' the house. 
My heart has been sae fain to see them, 
7^hat I for joy hae barkit wi" them." 

Of all the animals who have moralized 
on human affairs since the daysof ^sop, 
the dog seems best entitled to this privi- 
lege, as well from his superior sagacity, as 
from his being more than any other, the 
friend and associate of man. The dogs 
of Burns, excepting in their talent for 
moralizing, are downright dogs ; and not 
like the horses of Swift, or the Hind and 
Panther of Dryden, men in the shape of 
brutes. It is this circumstance that 
heightens the humour of the dialogue. 
The " twa dogs" are constantly kept be- 
fore our eyes, and tiie contrast between 
their form and character as dogs, and the 
sagacity of their conversation, heightens 
the humour and deepens the impression 
of the poets, satire. Though in this poem 
the chief excellence maybe considered as 
humour, yet great talents are displayed 
in its composition ; the happiest powers 
of description and the deepest insight in- 
to the human heart.* It is seldom, how- 

* When tliis poem first appeared, it was thought by 
•some very surpiising that a peasant, who Iiad not ai) 
opportunity of a-sociating even with a simple gentle- 
man, Bhould have been able to portray the character of 
high-life with such accuracy. And when it was recol- 
lected that he had probably been at the races of Ayr, 
where nnliilliy as well as gentry are to be seen, it was 
concluded Uiatthe race-ground had been the field of liis 
observation. This was sagacious enough ; but it did 
not require such inslruction to inform Burns, that hu- 
man nature is essentially tlie same in the high and the 
low; and a genius whicii comprehends the human 
mind, easily coinpn-hends the accidental varieties in- 
tioduccd by situation. 



ever, that the humour of Burns appears 
in so simple a form. Tlie livelinc.-:s of 
his sensibility frequently impels him to 
introduce into subjects of humour, emo- 
tions of tenderness or of pity ; and where 
occasion admits, he is sometimes carried 
on to exert the higher powers of imagi- 
nation. In such instances he leaves the 
society of Ramsay and of Fergusson, and 
associates himself with the masters of 
English poetry, whose language he fre- 
quently assumes. ' 

Of the union of tenderness and humour, 
examples may be found in The Death and 
Dying JVords of poor J\Iailie, in TheAuld 
Farmer's JVcw- Year's Morning Salutation 
to his Marc Maggie, and in many of his 
other poems. The praise of whiskey is 
a favourite subject with Burns. To this 
he dedicates his poem of Scotch Drink. 
Aft8r mentioning its cheering influence 
in a variety of situations, he describes, 
with singular liveliness and power of fan- 
cy, its stimulating effects on the black- 
smith working at his forge : 

" Nae mercy, then, for airn or steel ; 
The brawnie, bainie, ploughman cliiel, 
Brings hard owrehip, wi' sturdy wlieel, 

The strong fore huininer, 
Till block an' studdie ring an' reel 

Wi' dinsomc clamour-" 

On another occasion,* choosing to exalt 
whiskey above wine, he introduces a com- 
parison between the natives of more ge- 
nial climes, to whom the vine furnishes 
their beverage, and his own countrymen 
who drink the spirit of malt. The de- 
scription of the Scotsmen is humorous: 

" But bring a Scotsman frae his hill, 
Clap in his cheek a' Highland gill, 
Say such is Royal George's will. 

An' there's the foe. 
He has nae thought but liowto kill 

Twa at a blow." 

Here the notion of danger rouses the 
imagination of the poet. He goes on thus : 

" Nae caiild, faint-hearted doublings tease him ; 
Death conies, wi' fearless eye he sees him ; 
Wi' b uidy hand a welcome gies him 

An' when he fa's, 
His latest draught o'breathing Icd'es him 

In faint liuzzas." 

Again, however, he sinks into humour, 
and concludes the poem with the follow* 

*"The Author's Farnest Cry and Prayer to the 
Scotch Reprepenlauves in Parliaiiieiil." 



80 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



in? most laughable, but most irreverent 
nposirophe : 

" Scotland, my auUl respoctt'd Millier! 
Tlio' whiles ye moisiily yimr leatlicr, 
Till vvliare yo sit, nn cnips o' heal her, 

Ye tine your darn : 
Freedom and jrA/sAcy gang thcglther, 

Talt oil" your dram! 

Of this vmion o*"htmioiir with the hicfh- 
er powers of unajrination, instances may 
be found in tlie ])otMu entitled Death and 
Dr. IInrnhooh\ and in almost every stan- 
za of the Jlddress to the Dtil, one of the 
happiest of liis productions. After re- 
proachinor this terrible beiiifr with all his 
" doino's" and misdeeds, in the course of 
wliich lio passes through a series of Scot- 
tish superstitions, and rises at times into 
a high strain of poetry ; he concludes this 
address, delivered in a tone of great fa- 
miliarity, not altogether tnnnixed with 
apprehension, in the following words : 

" But, fare ye weel, nuld Nickio ben! 
O wad you lak a llion!;lit an' men' ! 
Ye aihiins inicht — I diuiia ken — 

Slill liao a slake — 
I'm wae to think upo' yon don 

K'en tor your sake !" 

Humour and tenderness are here so 
happily intermixed, that it is impossible 
to say which preponderates. 

Fergusson wrote a dialogue between 
the Causewai/ and the PI(nnitfones* of Ed- 
inburgh. This probably suggested to 
Burns his dialogue between the Old and 
the New bridge over the river Ayr.f 
The nature of such subjects requires that 
they shall be treated luunorously, and 
Fergusson has attempted nothing beyond 
this. Tliough the Caiixcira;/ and the 
Plains-tonps talk together, no attempt is 
made to personify the speakers. A "ca- 
die"|: heard the conversation and report- 
ed it to the poet. 

Tn the dialogue between the Bri^x of 
Ain\ llnrns himself is the auditor, and the 
time and occasicui on which it occurrtMl is 
related with great circnmstautiality. The 
poet, " pressed by cafe," or " inspired by 
whim," had left his bed in the town of 
Ayr, and wandered out alone in the dark- 
ness and solitiule of a winter night, to the 
mouth of the river, where the stillness 

• The middle of the street, and tlie side- way. 
Tlie Itrijjs of Ayr, Toems, p. 13. t A messenger. 



was interrupted only by the rushing sound 
of the influx of the tide. It was after 
midnight. The Dungeon-clock* had 
struck two, and the soiuid had been re- 
jteated by Wallace-Tower.* All else 
was hushed. The moon slione brightly, 
and 

" The chilly frost, beneath the silver beam, 
Crept, gently crusting, o'er the glittering stream."— 

In this situation the listening bard hears 
the " clanging sugh" of wings moving 
through the air, and speedily lie perceives 
two beings, reared the one on the Old, the 
other on the New Bridge, wliosc form 
and attire he describes, and whose con- 
versation with each other he rehearses. 
These genii enter into a comparison ot 
the respective edifices over which they 
preside, and afterwards, as is usual be- 
tween tlie old and young, compare mo- 
dern cliaractcrs and manners with those 
of past times. They ditler, as may be ex- 
pected, and taunt and scold each other 
in Broad Scotch. This conversation, 
which is certainly humorous, may be con 
sidered as the proper business of the po- 
em. As the debate runs high, and threat- 
ens serious consequences, all at once it ia 
interrupted by a new scene of wonders : 



-all before Hieir sight 



A fairy train appeard in order bright; 
Adown the glittering stream they I'eatly danc'd ; 
lUiglit to the moon their various dresses glanc'd ; 
They footed o'er the watry glass so neat. 
The infant lee scarce bent beneath their feet; 
While arts of Minstrelsy among them rung. 
And soulennobliug Bards heroic ditties sung." 

"The Oenius of the Stream in front appears— 
A venerable cliief, advanc'd in years; 
His hoary head with water-lilies crown'd, 
llis manly leg with garter-langle bound." 

Next follow a ntnnber of other allego- 
rical beings, among whom are tlie four 
seasons. Rural Joy, Plenty, Hospitality, 
and Courage 

" Henevolcnce, with mild benignant air, 

A female form, came iVom the tow'rs of Stair ; 

Learning and Wealth in equal measures irode, 

From simple Calrine, their long-lov'd abode ; 

Last, white robed Peace, crown'd with a hazel- 

wieaih, 
To rusric Agriculture did bequeath 
I'he luoken iron instrument of Death ; 
At sight of whom our sprites forgat their klm'Iliig 

wrath." 

* The two steeples of Avr. 



THE LIFE OP BURNS. 



81 



This poem, irregular and imperfect as 
it is, (lisiplays various and powerful ta- 
lents, and may serve to illustrate the ge- 
nius of Burns. In particular, it alfords a 
Btrikinn^ instance of his being carried be- 
yond his original purpose by the powers 
of imagination. 

In Fergusson's poems, the Plainslones 
and Caiiscwdij contrast the characters of 
tlio ditlerent persons who walked upon 
thorn. liurns probably conceived, tliat, 
by a dialogue between tlie Old and New 
Bridge, he might form a humorous 
contrast between ancient and modern 
manners in the town of Ayr. Such a 
dialogue could only be supposed to pass 
in the stillness of night ; and this led our 
poet into a description of a midnight 
scene, which excited in a high degree the 
powers of his imagination. During the 
whole dialogue the scenery is present to 
his fancy, and at length it suggests to him 
a fairy dance of aerial beings, under the 
beams of the moon, by which the wrath 
of tlio Genii of the Brigs of Jlyr is ap- 
peased. 

Incongruous as the different parts of 
this poem are, it is not an incongruity 
that displeases ; and we have only to re- 
gret that the poet did not bestow a little 
pains in making the figures more correct, 
and in smootiiing the versification. 

The epistles of Burns, in which may be 
included his Dedication to G. If. Esq. 
discover, like his other writings, the pow- 
ers of a superior understanding. They 
display deep insight into human nature, 
a gay and happy strain of reflection, great 
independence of sentiment, and generosi- 
ty of heart. It is to be regretted, that, 
in his f To /y Fair, and in some of his other 
poems, his humour degenerates into per- 
sonal satire, and that it is not sufficiently 
guarded in other respects. The Ilalloiv- 
een of Burns is free from every objection 
of this sort. It is interesting, not merely 
from its humorous description of marmers, 
but as it records the spells and charms 
used on the ceh'bration of a festival, now, 
evon in Scotland, falling into neglect, but 
which was once observed over tlie creat- 
cr part of Britain and Ireland.* These 
charms are supposed to afford an insight 
into futurity, especially on the subject of 
marringc, the most interesting event of 



rural life. In the Halloween, a female in 
performing one of the spells, has occasion 
to go out by moonlight to dip her shift- 
sleeve into a stream running towards the 
South.* It was not necessary for Burns to 
give a description of this stream. But it 
was the character of his ardent mind to 
pour forth not merely what the occasion 
required, but what it admitted ; and the 
temptation to describe so beautiful a natu- 
ral object by moonlight, was not to be 
resisted. 

" Wliyles owre a linn the biirnie plays 

A3 lljro' the glen it vvinipl't ; 
Wliyk's round a rocky scar it strays ; 

Wtiyles in a wiel it ditnpl't ; 
Wliyles glitter'd to tlie nightly rays, 

Wi' bickering, dancing dazzle ; 
Wliyles cookit underneath the braes, 

Below the spreading hazel, 

Unseen that night." 

Those who understand the Scottish di- 
alect will allow tliis to be one of the finest 
instances of description which the records 
of poetry afford. Though of a very dif- 
ferent nature, it may be compared in point 
of excellence with Thomson's description 
of a river swollen by the rains of winter, 
bursting through the straights that con- 
fine its torrent, " boiling, wheeling, foam- 
ing, and thundering along."f 

In pastoral, or, to speak more correct" 
ly, in rural poetry of a serious nature, 
Burns excelled equally as in that of a hu- 
morous kind ; and, using less of the Scot- 
tish dialect in his serious poems, he be- 
comes more generally intelligible. It is 
difficult to decide whether the Address to a 
J\Iou.<!e, whose nest was turncil up with the 
plough, should be considered as serious or 
comic. Be this as it may, the poem is 
one of the happiest and most finished of 
liis productions. If we smile at the " bick- 
ering battle" of this little flying animal, 
it is a smile of tenderness and pity. The 
descriptive part is admirable; the mpral 
reflections beautiful, and arising directly 
out of the occasion ; and in the conclu- 
sion there is a deep melancholy, a senti- 
ment of doubt and dread, that rises to the 
sublime. The Address to a Mountain 
Dalsi/, turned down with the plouii'h, is a 
poem of the same nature, though some- 
what inferior in point of originality, as 
wfdl as in the interest produced. To ex- 
tract out of incidents so common, and 



• In Irolrind it is still celebrated. It is not quite in 
disuse in Wales 



*See " Halloween," Stanzas xxiv. and xxv. 
t tJcc ThoiMKon'a fVvUcT. 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



seemingly so trivial as these, so fine a 
train of sentiment and imagery, is the 
surest proof, as well as the most brilliant 
triumph, of original genius. The Vision^ 
in two cantoes, from which a beautiful 
extract is taken by Mr. Mackenzie, in the 
97th number of The Lounger, is a poem 
of great and various excellence. The 
opening, in which the poet describes his 
own state of mind, retiring in the even- 
ing, wearied from the labours of the day, 
to moralize on his conduct and prospects, 
is truly interesting. The chamber, if we 
may so term it, in which he sits down to 
muse, is an exquisite painting : 

" There, lanely, by the ingle-cheek 
I sat and ey'd the spewing reels, 
That fill'd, wi' hoast-provoking smeek, 

The auld clay biggin ; 
An' heard the restless rations squeak 

About the riggin." 

To reconcile to our imagination the en- 
trance of an aerial being into a mansion 
of this kind, required the powers of Burns 
— he however succeeds. Coila enters, and 
her countenance, attitude, and dress, un- 
like those of other spiritual beings, are 
distinctly portrayed. To the painting, on 
her mantle, on which is depicted the most 
striking scenery, as well as the most dis- 
tinguished characters, of his native coun- 
try, some exceptions may be made. The 
mantle of Coila, like the cup of Thyrsis,* 
and the shield of Achilles, is too much 
crowded with figures, and some of the 
objects represented upon it are scarcely 
admissible, according to the principles of 
design. The generous temperament of 
Burns led him into these exuberances. In 
his second edition he enlarged the num- 
ber of figures originally introduced, that 
he might include objects to which he was 
attached by sentiments of affection, gra- 
titude, or patriotism. The second Duan, 
or canto of this poem, in which Coila de- 
scribes her own nature and occupations, 
particularly her superintendence of his 
infant genius, and in which she reconciles 
him to tlie character of a bard, is an ele- 
vated and solemn strain of poetry, ranking 
in all respects, excepting the harmony of 
numbers, with the higher productions of 
the English muse. The concluding stan- 
za, compared with that already quoted, 
will show to what a height Burns rises in 
this poem, from the point at wjiich he set 
out: — 

* Sec Ihe first IdyUium of Theocritus. 



" And wear thou this — she solemn said, 
And, bound the Holly round my head : 
The polish'd leaves, and berries red, 

Did rustling play ; 
And, like a passing thought, she fled 

In light away." 

In various poems. Burns has exhibited 
the picture of a mind under the deep im- 
pressions of real sorrow. The Lament, 
the Ode to Ruin, Despondency, and JVin- 
tcr, a Dirge, are of this character. In 
the first of these poems, the 8th stanza, 
which describes a sleepless night from 
anguish of mind, is particularly striking. 
Burns often indulged in those melancholy 
views of the nature and condition of man, 
which are so congenial to the tempera- 
ment of sensibility. The poem entitled 
J\Ian was made to Mourn, affords an in- 
stance of this kind, and The Winter Might 
is of the same description. The last is 
highly characteristic, both of the temper 
of mind, and of the condition of Burns. It 
begins with a description of a dreadful 
storm on a night in winter. The poet re- 
presents himself as lying in bed, and lis- 
tening to its howling. In this situation he 
naturally turns his thoughts to the owrie 
Cattle and the silly Sheep, exposed to all 
the violence of the tempest. Having la- 
mented their fate, he proceeds in the fol- 
lowing manner : 

" Ilk happing bird — wee, helpless thing! 
That, in the merry months o' spring, 
Delighted me to hear thee sing, 

What comes n' thee 1 
Whare wilt thou cow'r thy cliittering wing, 

An' close thy e'e 1" 

Other reflections of the same nature 
occur to his mind ; and as the midnight 
moon " muffled with clouds" casts her 
dreary light on his window, thoughts of a 
darker and more melancholy nature crowd 
upon him. In this state of mind, he hearg 
a voice pouring through the gloom a so- 
lemn and plaintive strain of reflection. 
The mourner compares the fury of the 
elements with that of man to his brother 
man, and finds the former light in the ba- 
lance. 

" See stern oppression's iron grip, 

Or mad ambition's gory liaiirl, 
Sending, like blnoil-hoiinds from Ihe slip, 

Wo, want, and murder, o'er a land ;" 

He pursues this train of reflection 
through a variety nf particulars, in tho 
course of which he introduces the follow- 
ing animated apostrophe : 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



83 



" Oh j'e ! who, sunk in beds of down, 
Feel not a want but what yourselves create, 

Think, for a moment, on his wi etched fate, 
Whom friends and fortune quite disown! 

Ill-satisfy'd Iseen Nature's clam'rotis call, 
Stretch'd on his straw he lays himself to sleep. 

While thro' the ragsced roof and chinky wall, 
Chill o'er his slumbers piles the drifty heap !" 

The strain of sentiment which runs 
tliroiigh the poem is noble, though the 
execution is unequal, and the versification 
is defective. 

Among the serious poems of Burns, The 
Cotter's Saturday J^ischtis perhaps entitled 
to the first rank. The Farmer's Ingle of 
Fergusson evidently suggested the plan of 
this poem, as has been already mentioned ; 
but after the plan was formed, Burns trust- 
ed entirely to his own powers for the ex- 
ecution. Fergusson's poem is certainly 
very beautiful. It has all the charms 
which depend on rural characters and 
manners happily portrayed, and exhibited 
under circumstances highly grateful to the 
imagination. The Farmer's Ingle begins 
with describing the return of evening. 
The toils of the day are over, and the far- 
mer retires to his comfortable fire-side. 
The reception which he and his men-ser- 
vants receive from the careful housewife, 
is pleasingly described. After their sup- 
per is over, they begin to talk on the ru- 
ral events of the day. 

" Bo\it kirk and market eke their tales gae on, 
How Jock wooed Jenny here to be his bride ; 

And there how Marion for a bastard son, 
Upo' the cutty-stool was forced to ride, 

The waefu' scauld o' our jMess John to bide." 

The " Guidame" is next introduced as 
forming a circle round the fire, in the 
midst of her grand-children, and while 
she spins from the rock, and the spindle 
plays on her " russet lap," she is relating 
to the young ones tales of witches and 
ghosts. Tlie poet exclaims : 

" O mock na this, my friends ! but rather mourn, 
Ye in life's brawest spring wi' reason clear, 

Wi' cild our idle fancies a' return. 
And dim our dolefu' days wi' bairnly fear; 

The mind's aye cradled when the grave is near." 

In the mean time the farmer, wearied 
with the fatigues of the day, stretches 
himself at length on the Settle, a sort of 
rustic conch, which extends on one side 
of the fire, and the cat and house-dog 
leap upon it to receive his caresses. Here 
T 



resting at his ease, he gives his directions 
to his men-servants for the succeeding 
day. The housewife follows his exam- 
ple, and gives her orders to the maidens. 
By degrees the oil in the cruise begins to 
fail ; the fire runs low ; sleep steals on this 
rustic group; and they move ofi'to enjoy 
their peaceful slumbers. The poet con- 
cludes by bestowing his blessings on the 
" husbandman and all his tribe." 

This is an original and truly interesting 
pastoral. It possesses every thing re- 
quired in this species of composition. We 
might have perhaps said every thing that 
it admits, had not Burns written his Cot- 
ter's Saturday J^ight. 

The cottager returning from his la- 
bours, has no servants to accompany him, 
to partake of his fare, or to receive his 
instructions. The circle which he joins, 
is composed of his wife and children only ; 
and if it admits of less variety, it affords 
an opportimity for representing scenes that 
more strongly interest the affections. Tlie 
younger children running to meet him, 
and clambering round his knee ; the elder, 
returning from their weekly labours with 
the neighbouring farmers, dutifully de- 
positing their little gains with their pa- 
rents, and receiving their father's blessing 
and instructions ; the incidents of the 
courtship of Jenny, their eldest daughter, 
" woman grown ;" are circumstances of 
the most interesting kind, which are most 
happily delineated ; and after their frugal 
supper, the representation of these hum- 
ble cottagers forming a wider circle 
round their hearth, and uniting in the 
worship of God, is a picture the most 
deeply affecting of any which the rural 
muse has ever presented to the view. 
Burns was admirably adapted to this de- 
lineation. Like all men of genius, he 
was of the temperament of devotion, and 
the powers of memory co-operated in 
this instance with the sensibility of his 
heart, and the fervour of his imagina- 
tion.* The Cotter's Saturday JVight is 
tender and moral, it is solemn and devo- 
tional, and rises at length into a strain of 
grandeur and sublimity, which modern 
poetry has not surpassed. The noble 
sentiments of patriotism with which it 
concludes, correspond with the rest of 
the poem. In no age or country have 
the pastoral muses breathed such ele- 
vated accents, if the Messiah of Pope be 

*The reader will recollect that the Cotter was Hurns's 
i father. See p. 24. 



M 



excepted, which is indeed a pastoral in 
form only. It is to be regretted that 
Burns did not employ his genius on other 
subjects of the same nature, which the 
manners and customs of the Scottish pea- 
santry would have amply supplied. Such 
poetry is not to be estimated by the de- 
gree of pleasure which it bestows ; it 
sinks deeply into the heart, and is calcu- 
lated far beyond any other human means, 
for giving permanence to the scenes and 
characters it so exquisitely describes.* 

Before we conclude, it will be proper to 
offer a few observations on the lyric pro- 
ductions of Burns. His compositions of 
this kind are chiefly songs, generally in. 
the Scottish dialect, and always after the 
model of the Scottish songs, on the gene- 
ral character and moral influence of which, 
some observations have already been of- 
fered.f We may hazard a few more par- 
ticular remarks. 

Of the historic or heroic ballads of 
Scotland, it is unnecessary to speak. 
Burns has nowhere imitated them, a cir- 
cumstance to be regretted, since in this 
species of composition, from its admitting 
the more terrible as well as the softer 
graces of poetry, he was eminently quali- 
fied to have excelled. The Scottish songs 
which served as a model to Burns, are al- 
most without exception pastoral, or rather 
rural. Such of them as are comic, fre- 
quently treat of a rustic courtship or a 
country wedding ; or they describe the 
differences of opinion which arise in mar- 
ried life. Burns has imitated this species, 
and surpassed his models. The song, be- 
ginning, " Husband, husband, cease your 
strife,"t may be cited in support of this 
observation. \\ His other comic songs are 
of equal merit. In the rural songs of 
Scotland, whether humorous or tender, 
the sentiments are given t<) particular 
characters, and very generally, the inci- 
dents are referred to particular scenery. 
This last circumstance may be consider- 

* See Appendix, No. II. Note D. 

t See p. 6. 

} See Poems, p. 95. 

$ The dialosnes between hirshands and their wives, 
wliich form the subjects of the Scottish sonps, are 
ahnost all Uidicrnus and satirical, and in these contests 
the lad, is senerally victorious. From the collections 
of Mr. P'ukerton we find that the comic muse of Scot- 
laud delishted in such representations from very early 
times, in her rude dramatic efforts, as well as in her 
tuflic songs. 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 

ed as the distinguished feature of tho 
Scottish songs, and on it a considerable 
part of their attraction depends. On all 
occasions the sentiments, of whatever na- 
ture, are delivered in the character of the 
person principally interested. If love be 
described, it is not as it is observed, but 
as it is felt ; and the passion is delineated 
under a particular aspect. Neither is it 
the fiercer impulses of desire that are ex- 
pressed, as in the celebrated ode of Sappho, 
the model of so many modern songs, but 
those gentler emotions of tenderness and 
aflection, which do not entirely absorb 
the lover; but permit him to associate his 
emotions with the charms of external na- 
ture, and breathe the accents of purity 
and innocence, as well as of love. In 
these respects the love-songs of Scotland 
are honourably distinguished from the 
most admired classical compositions of 
the same kind : and by such associations, 
a variety, as well as liveliness, is given to 
the representation of this passion, which 
are not to be found in the poetry of Greece 
or Rome, or perhaps of any other nation. 
Many of the love-songs of Scotland de- 
scribe scenes of rural courtship ; many 
may be considered as invocations from 
lovers to their mistresses. On such oc- 
casions a degree of interest and reality is 
given to the sentiments, by the spot des- 
tined to these happy interviews being 
particularized. The lovers perhaps meet 
at the Bush aboon Traquair, or on the 
Banks ofEltrick; the nymphs are invoked 
to wander among the wilds of Roslin, or 
the woods of Invermay. Nor is the spot 
merely pointed out ; the scenery is often 
described as well as the characters, so as 
to present a complete picture to the fan- 
cy.* Thus the maxim of Horace «< j)jc- 



* One or two examples may illustrate this observa- 
tion. A Scottish song, written about a hundred years 
ago, begins thus: 

" On Ettrick banks, on a summer's night, 

At gloaming, when the sheep drove hame, 
I met my lassie, braw and tight. 

Come wading barefoot a' her lane ; 
My heart grew light, I ran, I flang 

My arms about her lily neck, 
And kiss'd and clasped there fu' U-.ng, 

My words they were na mony feck."* 

The lover, who is a Highlander, goes on to relate the 
lancuage he employed with his Lowland maid to win 
her heart, and to persuade her to fly with him to the 
Highland hills, there to share his fortune. The senti- 
ments are in themselves beautiful. Bui we feel them 
with double force, while we conceive that they wera 

* Money feck, not very many. 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



85 



turn poesl.1, is faithfully observed by these 
rustic bards, who are guided by the same 
impulse of nature and sensibility wiiich 
influenced the father of epic poetry, on 
whose example the precept of the Roman 
poet was perhaps founded. By this 
means the imajrination is employed to in- 
terest the feelings. When we do not 
conceive distinctly we do not simpathyze 
deeply in any human affection ; and we 
conceive nothing in the abstract. Ab- 
straction, so useful in morals, and so es- 
sential in science, must be abandoned 
when the heart is to be subdued by the 
powers of poetry or of eloquence. The 
bards of a ruder condition of society paint 
individual objects ; and hence, among 
other causes, the easy access they obtain 
to the heart. Generalization is the vice 
of poets whose learning overpowers their 
genius ; of poets of a refined and scien- 
tific age. 

The dramatic style which prevails so 
much in the Scottish songs, while it con- 
tributes greatly to the interest they ex- 
cite, also shows that they have originated 
among a people in the earlier stages of 
Bociety. Where this form of composition 
appears in songs of a modern date, it in- 
dicates that they have been written after 
the ancient model.* 

addressed by a lovor to his mistress, whom he met all 
alotie, on a summer's evening, by the hanks of a beau- 
tiful stream, which some of iishave actually seen, and 
wliicli all of us can paint to our imagination. Let us 
take another example. It is now a nymph that speaks. 
Hear how she e.\presses herself — 

" How hlythe each morn was I to see 

My swain come o'er the hill ; 
He skipt the burn, and flew to me, 

I met him with guid will." 

Here is another picture drawn by the pencil of Na- 
ture. We see a shepherdess standin;; by the side of a 
brook, watcl'ine her lover as he descends the opposite 
hill. Fie hounds lightly along; he apfiroaches nearer 
and nearer; he leiips the brook, arid flies into her 
arms. In tl ■< recollection of thp«e circumstances, the 
surrounding scenery becomes endeared to the I'air 
mourner, and she bursts into the following excla- 
mation : 

" O thr broom, the bonnie, bonnie broom, 
The Srooin of the Cowden-Knowes! 

I wish f were with my dear swain, 
With his pipe and my ewes." 

T'uis the individual spot of this happy interview is 
pointed out, and the picture iscompleled. 

• That the dramatic form of writing characterizes 
productions of an early, or, what amounts to the 



The Scottish songs are of a very une- 
qual poetical merit, and this inequality 
often extends to the different parts of the 
same song. Those that are humorous, 
or characteristic of manners, have in ge- 
neral the merit of copying nature ; those 
that are serious, are tender, and often 
sweetly interesting, but seldom exhibit 
high powers of imagination, which indeed 
do not easily find a place in this species 
of composition. The alliance of the 
words of the Scottish songs with the mu- 
sic, has in some instances given to the 
former a popularity, which otherwise they 
would not have obtained. 

The association of the words and the 
music of these songs, with the more beau- 
tiful parts of the scenery of Scotland, con- 
tributes to the same effect. It has given 
them not merely popularity, but perma- 
nence ; it has imparted to the works of 
man some portion of the durability of the 
works of nature. If, from our imperfect ex- 
perience of the past, we may judge with 
any confidence respecting the future, 
songs of this description are of all others 
least likely to die. In the changes of Ian- 
same thing, of a rude stage of society, may be illus- 
trated by a reference to the most ancient compositiona 
that we know of, the Hebrew scriptures, and the wri- 
tings of Homer The form of dialogue is adopted in the 
old Scottish ballads even in narration, whenever the 
situations described become interesting. This some 
times' produces a very striking effect, of which an in 
stance may be given from the ballad of Edom o' Gordon 
a composition apparently of the sixteenth century. 
The story of the ballad is shortly this. — The castle of 
Rhodes, in the absence of its lord, is attacked by the 
robber Edom o' Gordon. The lady stands on her de- 
fence, beats off' the assailants, and wounds Gordon, 
who, in his rage, orders the castle to be set on fire 
That his orders are carried into effect, we learn from 
the expostulation of the lady, who is represented as 
standing on the battlements, and remonstrating on tliis 
barbarity. She is interrupted — 

" O then bespake her little son, 

Sate on his nourice knee ; 
Says, ' mither dear, gi' owre this house, 

For the reek it smithers me.' 
' I wad gie a' my gowd, my childe, 

Sae wad I a' my fee. 
For ae blast o' the weslin wind, 

To blaw the reek frae thee." ' 

The circumstantiality of the Scottish love-sones, and 
the dramatic form which prevails so generally in them, 
probably arises from Iheir being the descendants and 
successors of the ancient ballads. In the beautiful 
mo<iernsong of Mara nf CastleCary, the dramatic form 
has a very happy effect. Th-j same may be said of 
Donald and Flora, and Come under my plaidic, by th« 
same author Mr. Macniel. 



86 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



guage they may no doubt suffer change ; 
but the associated strain of sentiment and 
of music will perhaps survive, while the 
clear stream sweeps down the vale of 
Yarrow, or the yellow broom waves on 
Cowden-Kuowes. 

The first attempts of Burns in song- 
writing were not very successful. His 
habitual inattention to the exactness of 
rhymes, and to the harmony of numbers, 
arising probably from the models on which 
his versification was formed, were faults 
likely to appear to more disadvantage in 
this species of composition, than in any 
other ; and we may also remark, that the 
strength of his imagination, and the ex- 
uberance of his sensibility, were with dif- 
ficulty restrained within the limits of gen- 
tleness, delicacy, and tenderness, which 
seemed to be assigned to the love-s'ongs 
of his nation. Burns was better adapted 
by nature for following, in such composi- 
tions, the model of the Grecian, than that 
of the Scottish muse. By study and prac- 
tice he however surmounted all these ob- 
stacles. In his earlier songs, there is 
some ruggedncss ; but this gradually dis- 
appears in his successive efforts; and some 
of his later compositions of this kind may 
be compared, in polished delicacy, with 
the finest songs in our language, while h\ 
the eloquence of sensibility they surpass 
them all. 

The songs of Burns, like the models he 
followed and excelled, are often dramatic, 
and for the greater part amatory ; and the 
beauties of rural nature are every where 
associated with the passions and emotions 
of the mind. Disdaining to copy the works 
of others, he has not, like some poets of 
great name, admitted into his descriptions 
exotic imagery. The landscapes he has 
painted, and the objects with which they 
are embellished, are, in every single in- 
stance, such as are to be found in his own 
country. In a mountainous region, es- 
pecially when it is comparatively rude 
and naked, and the most beautiful scene- 
ry will always be foimd in the valleys, 
and on the banks of the wooded streams. 
Such scenery is peculiarly interesting at 
the close of a summer-day. As we ad- 
vance northwards, the number of the days 
of summer, indeed, diminishes; but from 
this cause, as well as from the mildness of 
the temperature, the attraction of the sea- 
son increases, and the summer-night be- 
comes still more beautiful. The greater 
obliquity of the sun's path on the ecliptic 



prolongs the grateful season of twilight 
to the midnight hours : and the shades 
of the evening seem to mingle with the 
morning's dawn. The rural poets ol 
Scotland, as may be expected, associate 
in their songs the expressions of passion, 
with the most beautiful of their scenery, 
in the fairest season of the year, and ge- 
nerally in those hours of the evening when 
the beauties of nature are most interest- 



To all these adventitious circumstan- 
ces, on which so much of the effect of po- 
etry depends, great attention is paid by 
Burns. There is scarcely a single song 
of his, in which particular scenery is not 
described, or allusions made to natural 
objects, remarkable for beauty or inter- 
est : and though his descriptions are not 
so full as are sometimes met with in the 
older Scottish songs, they are in the high- 
est degree appropriate and interesting. 
Instances in proof of this might be quoted 
from the Lea Rig, Highland Mary, The 
Soldier's Return, Logan Water ; from 
that beautiful pastoral Bonny Jean, and a 
great number of others. Occasionally 
the force of his genius carries him beyond 
the usual boundaries of Scottish song, 
and the natural objects introduced have 
more of the character of sublimity. An 
instance of this kind is noticed by Mr. 

* A lady, of whose gfiniiis the editor entertains high 
admiration (Mrs. Baibauld,) has fallen into an error 
in this respect. In her prefatory address to the works 
of Collins, speaking of the natural objects that may be 
employed to give interest to the descriptions of passion, 
she observes, "they present an inexhaustible variety, 
from the Song of Solomon, breathing of cassia, myrrh, 
and cinnamon, to the Gentle Shepherd of Ramsay, 
whose damsels carry their milking-pails through the 
frosts and snows of their less genial, but not less pasto- 
ral country." The damsels of Ramsay do not walk in 
the midst of frost and snow. Almost all the scenes of 
the Gentle Shepherd are laid in the open nir, amidst 
beautiful natural objects, and at the most genial season 
of the year. Ramsay introduces all his acts with a 
prefatory description to assure us of this. The fault of 
the climate of Britain is not, that it does not afford us 
the beauties of summer, but that the season of such 
beauties is comparatively short, and even uncertain 
There are days and nights, even in the northern divi 
sinn of the island, which equal, or perhaps surpass, 
what are to be found in the latitude of Sicily, or ol 
Greece. Buchanan, when he wrote his exquisite Ode 
to May, felt the charm as well as the transientness oi 
these happy days . 

Salve fugacis gloria spculi, 
Salve secunda di;;na dies nota 
Palve veluft^K vilip imago, 
Et specijuen ventijitis -■Evi. 



THE LIFE OF BURNS, 



87 



Syme,* and many others might be ad- 
duced : 

" Had T a cave on some wild, distant shore, 
Wliere tlie winds howl to the waves' dashing roar : 

There would [ weep my woes. 

There seek my last repose. 

Till grief my eyes should close 
Ne'er to wake more." 

In one song, the scene of which is laid 
in a winter-night, the " wan moon" is de- 
scribed as " setting beliind the white 
waves V' in another, the " storms" are 
apostrophized, and commanded to " rest 
in the cave of their shimbers," on several 
occasions the genius of Burns loses sight 
entirely of his archetypes, and rises into 
a strain of uniform sublimity. Instances 
of this kind appear in Libertie, a Vision ; 
and in his two war-songs, Bruce to his 
Troops, and the Song of Death. These 
last are of a description of which we have 
no other in our language. The martial 
songs of our nation are not military, but 
naval. If we were to seek a comparison 
of tliese songs of Burns with others of a 
similar nature, we must have recourse to 
the poetry of ancient Greece, or of mo- 
dern Gaul. 

Burns has made an important addition 
to the songs of fcicotland. In his compo- 
sitions, the poetry equals and sometimes 
surpasses the music. He has enlarged 
the poetical scenery of his country. Ma- 
ny of her rivers and mountains, formerly 
unknown to the muse, are now conse- 
crated by his immortal verse. The Doon, 
the Lugar, the Ayr, the Nith, and the 
Cluden, will in future, like the Yarrow, 
the Tweed, and the Tay, be considered 
as classic streams, and their borders will 
be trodden with new and superior emo- 
tions. 

The greater part of the songs of Burns 
were written after he removed into the 
county of Dumfries. Influenced, perhaps, 
by habits formed in early life, he usually 
composed while walking in the open air. 
When engaged in writing these songs, his 
favourite walks were on the banks of the 
Nith, or of the Cluden, particularly near 
the ruins of Lincluden Abbey ; and this 
beautiful scenery he has very happily de- 
scribed under various aspects, as it ap- 
pears during the softness and serenity of 
evening, and during the stillness and so- 
lemnity of the moon-light night.f 

* See pp. 55, 50. 
tSevi Poems, p. 90 ; & Uie Vision, p. 117. 



There is no species of poetry, the pro- 
ductions of the drama not excepted, so 
much calculated to influence the morals, 
as well as the happiness of a people, as 
those popular verses which are associated 
with national airs; and which being learn- 
ed in the years of infancy, make a deep 
impression on the heart before the evolu 
tion of the powers of the understanding 
The compositions of Burns of this kind, 
now presented in a collected form to the 
world, make a most important addition 
to the popular songs of his nation. Like 
all his other writings, they exhibit inde- 
pendence of sentiment ; they are peculi- 
arly calculated to increase tliose ties which 
bind generous hearts to their native soil, 
and to the domestic circle of their infan- 
cy ; and to cherish those sensibilities 
which, under due restriction, form the 
purest happiness of our nature. If in his 
unguarded moments he composed some 
songs on which this praise cannot be be- 
stowed, let us hope that they will speedi- 
ly be forgotten. In several instances, 
where Scottish airs were allied to words 
objectionable in point of delicacy, Burns 
has substituted others of a purer charac- 
ter. On such occasions, without chang- 
ing the subject, he has changed the sen- 
timents. A proof of this may be seen in 
the air of John Anderson my Joe, whicij 
is now united to words that breathe a 
strain of conjugal tenderness, that is as 
highly moral as it is exquisitely affecting 

Few circumstances could afford a more 
striking proof of the strength of Burns's 
genius, than the general circulation of his 
poems in England, notwithstanding tlie 
dialect in which the greater part are writ- 
ten, and which might be supposed to ren- 
der them here uncouth or obscure. In 
some instances he has used this dialect 
on subjects of a sublime nature; but in 
general he confines it to sentiments or 
descriptions of a tender or humorous kind ; 
and where he rises into elevation of 
thought, he assumes a purer English style. 
The singular faculty he possessed of ming- 
ling in the same poem, humorous senti- 
ments and descriptions, with imagery of 
a sublime and terrific nature, enabled liiin 
to use this variety of dialect on some oc- 
casions with striking effect. His poem of 
Tnm o'Shanter affords an instance of this. 
There he passes from a scene of the low- 
est humour, to situations of the most aw 
fal and terrible kind. He is a musician 
that runs from the lowest to the highest 
of his keys ; and the use of the Scottish 



ns 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



dialect enables him to add two additional 
notes to the bottom of his scale. 

Great efforts have been made by tlio 
nluihitants of Scotland, of the superior 
ranks, to approximate in tlieir spoecli to 
tiie i)uro English standard ; and this has 
made it difficult to write in the Scottish 
dialect, without cxcitiufr in them some 
feelings of disgust, which in England are 
scarcely felt. An Englishman who un- 
derstands the meaning of the Scottish 
words, is not offended, nay, on certain 
subjects, he is perhaps, pleased with the 
rustic dialect, as lie may be with the Do- 
ric Greek of Theocritus. 

But a Scotchman inhabiting his own 
country, if a man of education, and more 
especially if a literary ciiaracter, has ba- 
nisiied such words from his writings, and 
has attempted to banish them from liis 
speech : and being accustomed to hear 
them from the vulgar, daily, docs not 
easily admit of their use in poetry, which 
requires a style elevated and ornamental. 
A dislike of this kind is, however, acci- 
dental, not natural. It is one of the spe- 
cies of disgust wliich we feel at seeing a 
female of high birth in tlie dress of a rus- 
tic ; which, if she be really young and 
beautiful, a little habit will enable us to 
overcome. A lady who assumes such a 
dress, puts her beauty, indeed, to a se- 
verer trial. Slie r(\iects — she, indeed, op- 
poses the inlluence of tashion ; she possi- 
bly abandons the grace of elegant and 
flowing drapery ; but lier native cliarms 
remain the more striking, jierliaps, be- 
cause tiie less adorned ; and to these she 
trusts for fixing lier empire on tliose af- 
fections over which fashion has no sway. 
If she succeeds, a new association arises. 
The dress of the beautiful rustic becomes 
itself beautiful, and establishes a new 
fashion for the young and the gay. And 
when in after ages, the contemplative ob- 
Bcrver shall view iior picture in the gal- 
lery that contains the portraits of the 
beauties of successive centuries, each in 
the dress of her respective day, her dra- 
pery will not deviate, more than that of 
her rivals, from tiie standard of his taste, 
and he will give the palm to her who ex- 
cels in the lineaments of nature. 

Burns wrote professedly for the pea- 
santry of his country, and by them their 
native dialect is universally relished. To 
a numerous class of the natives of Scot- 
land of another description, it may also be 



considered as attractive in a different 
point of view. P^stranged from tlieir na- 
tive soil, and spread over foreign lands, 
the idiom of their country unites with the 
sentiments and the descriptions on which 
it is employed, to recal to their minds the 
interesting scenes of infiuicy and youth — 
to awaken many pleasing, many tender 
recollections. Literary men, residing at 
Edinburgh or Aberdeen, cannot judge on 
this point for one hundred and fifty thou 
sand of their expatriated countrymen.* 

To the use of the Scottish dialect in 
one species of poetry, the composition of 
songs, tiie taste of the public has been for 
some time reconciled. The dialect in 
question excels, as has already been ob- 
served, in the copiousness and exactness 
of its terms for natural objects ; and in 
pastoral or rural songs, it gives a Doric 
simplicity, which is very generally ap- 
proved. Neither does the regret seem 
well founded wliicli some persons of taste 
have expressed, that Burns used this 
dialect in so many other of his compo- 
sitions. His declared purpose was to 
paint the manners of rustic life among his 
" humble comi)eers," and it is not easy 
to conceive, tliat this could have been 
done with equal humour and effect, if ho 
had not adopted their idiom. There are 
some, indeed, who will think the subject 
too low for poetry. Persons of this sick- 
ly taste will tind their delicacies consulted 
in many a polite and learned autlior : let 
them not seek for gratitication in the 
rough and vigorous lines, in the unbridled 
humour, or in the overpowering sensi- 
bility of this bard of nature. 

To determine the comparative merit 
of Burns would be no easy task. Many 
persons, afterwards distinguished in lite- 
rature, have been born in as humble a 
situation of life ; but it would be difficult 
to hiid any other who, while earning his 
subsistence by daily labour, has written 

* These obsprvation? nrc excited l)y some remarka of 
rcs|)pctiiblc corres|ioiulent3 ol'llioiicscription nlliidcd to. 
This calculation of tlie iiiiinher ot'ScolchiDen liviiifi out 
of Pcothiiui is not ullogethcr arl)itraiy, ami it is proba- 
bly below the tnitli. It is, in some degree, founded on 
the proportion l)et\veen the number of the sexes i« Scot- 
land, as it appears from the invaluable Statistics of Sir 
John Sinclair. For Srotclimen of this description, more 
particularly, niirns seems to have written his song, bo- 
ginninji, 'I'heir groves o' sweet myrtle, a beautiful strain, 
which, it may be confiduntly predicted, will be sung 
with equal or super',." interest on the banks of the 
(Janpes or of the Mississippi, as on those of the Tay or 
the Tweed 



THE LIFE OF BURNS. 



8? 



verses which have attracted and retained 
universal attention, and which are likely 
to give the author a permanent and dis- 
tinguished place among the followers of 
the muses. If he is deficient in grace, 
he is distinguished for ease as well as 
energy ; and these are indications of the 
higher order of genius. The father of 
epic poetry exhibits one of his heroes as 
excelling in strength, another in swift- 
ness — to form his perfect warrior, these 
attributes are combined. Every species 
of intellectual superiority admits perhaps 
of a similar arrangement. One writer 
excels in force — another in ease ; he is 
superior to them both, in whom both 
those qualities are united. Of Homer 
himself it may be said, that, like his own 
Achilles, he surpasses his competitors in 
nobility as well as strength. 

The force of Burns lay in the powers 
of his understanding, and in the sensibili- 
ty of his heart ; and these will be found 
tu infuse the living principle into all the 



works of genius which seem destined to 
immortality. His sensibility had an an- 
common range. He was alive to every 
species of emotion. He is one of the few 
poets that can be mentioned, who have 
at once excelled in humour, in tenderness, 
and in sublimity ; a praise unknown to 
the ancients, and which in modern times 
is only due to Ariosto, to Shakspeare, and 
perhaps to Voltaire. To compare the 
writings of the Scottish peasant with the 
works of these giants in literature, might 
appear presumptuous ; yet it may be as- 
serted that he has displayed the foot of 
Hercules. How near he might have ap- 
proached them by proper culture, with 
lengthened years, and under happier au- 
spices, it is not for us to calculate. But 
while we run over the melancholy story 
of his life, it is impossible not to heave a 
sigh at the asperity of his fortune ; and 
as we survey the records of his mind, it 
is easy to see, that out of such materials 
have been reared the fairest and the most 
durable of the monuments of genius. 



TO 

BR. cuaniB's 

EDITION OF THE CORRESPONDENCE. 



It IP impossible to dismiss this volume* 
of the Correspondence of our Bard, with- 
out some anxiety as to the reception it 
may meet with. The experiment we are 
making has not often been tried ; perhaps 
on no occasion has so large a portion of 
the recent and unpremeditated eff'usions 
of a man of genius been committed to the 
press. 

Of the following letters of Burns, a con- 
Biderable number were transmitted for 
publication, by the nidividuals to whom 
they were addressed ; but very few have 
been printed entire. It will easily be be- 
lieved, that in a series of letters written 
without the least view to publication, va- 
rious passages were found unfit for the 
press, from different considerations. It 
will also be readily supposed, that our po- 
et, writing nearly at the same time, and 
under the same feelings to different indi- 
viduals, would sometimes fall into the 
same train of sentiment and forms of ex- 
pression. To avoid, therefore, the tedi- 
ousness of such repetitions, it has been 
found necessary to mutilate many of the 
individual letters, and sometimes to ex- 
scind parts of great delicacy — the unbri- 
dled effusions of panegyric and regard. 
But though many of the letters are print- 
ed from originals furnished by the persons 
to whom they were addressed, others are 
printed from first draughts, or sketches, 
found among the pai)ers of our Bard. 
Though in general no man committed his 
thoughts to his correspondents with less 
consideration or effort than Burns, yet it 
appears that in some instancey he was 
dissatisfied with his first essays, and wrote 
out his communications in a fairer charac- 
ter, or perhaps in more studied language. 
In the chaos of his manuscripts, some of 
the original sketches were found rand as 
these sketches, though less perfect, are 
fairly to be considered as the offspring of 
his mind, where they have seemed in them- 

* Dr. Ciirrie'a edition of Biirus's Works was origi- 
nally luihiislied in four volumes, of whicli tlie follow- 
Uig Correspondence formed tlie second. 



selves worthy of a place in this volume, 
we have not hesitated to insert them, 
though they may not always correspond 
exactly with the letteis transmitted,whicli 
have been lost or witnheld. 

Our author appears at one time to have 
formed an intention of making a collec- 
tion of his letters for the amusement of a 
friend. Accordingly he copied an incon- 
siderable number of them into a book, 
which he presented to Robert Riddel, of 
Glenriddel, Esq. Among these was the 
account of his life, addressed to Doctor 
Moore, and printed in the first volume.* 
In copying from his imperfect sketches, 
(it does not appear that he had the letters 
actually sent to his correspondents before 
him,) he seems to have occasionally en- 
larged his observations, and altered his 
expressions. In such instances his emen- 
dations have been adopted ; but in truth 
there are but five of the letters thus se- 
lected by the poet, to be found in the 
present volume, the rest being thought of 
inferior merit, or otherwise unfit for the 
public eye. 

In printing this volume, the editor has 
found some corrections of grammar neces- 
sary ; but these have been very few, and 
such as may be supposed to occur in the 
careless effusions, even of literary charac- 
ters, who have not been in the habit of 
carrying their compositions to the press. 
These corrections have never been ex- 
tended to any habitual modes of expres- 
sion of the poet, even where his phrase- 
ology may seem to violate the delicacies 
of taste ; or the idiom .of our language, 
which he wrote in general with great ac- 
curacy. Some difference will indeed be 
found in this respect in his earlier and in 
his later compositions ; and this volume 
will exhibit the progress of his style, as 
well as the history of his mind. In the 
fourth edition, several new letters were 
introduced, and some of inferior impor- 
tance were omitted 



GENERAL CORRESPONDENCE 



IiETTERS, &C. 



No. I. 
TO MR. JOHN MURDOCH, 

SCHOOLMASTER, 
STAPLES INN BUILDINGS, LONDON. 
Lochlee, \ 5th January , 1783. 

DEAR SIR, 

As I have an opportunity of sending 
you a letter, without putting you to that 
expense which any production of mine 
would but ill repay, I embrace it with 
pleasure, to tell you that I have not for- 
gotten nor ever will forget, the many ob- 
ligations I lie under to your kindness and 
friendship. 

I do not doubt, Sir, but you will wish 
to know what has been the result of all 
the pains of an indulgent father, and a 
masterly teaclier ; and I wish I could 
gratify your cariosity with such a recital 
as you would be pleased with ; but that 
is what I am afraid will not be the case. 
I have, indeed, kept pretty clear of vicious 
habits; and in this respect, 'I hope my 
conduct will not disgrace the education I 
have gotten ; but as a man of the world, 
I am most miserably deficient. — One 
would have thought that bred as I have 
been, under a father who has figured 
pretty well as un hornmc des affaires, T 
might have been what the world calls a 
pushing, active fellow ; but, to tell you 
the truth, Sir, there is hardly any thing 
more my reverse. I.seem to be one sent 
into the world to see, and observe ; and 
I very easily compound with the knave 
T 2 



who tricks me of my money, if there ba 
any thing original about him which shows 
me human nature in a different light from 
any thing I have seen before. In short, 
the joy of my heart is to "study men, 
their manners, and their ways ;" and for 
this darling object, I cheerfully sacrifice 
every other consideration. I am quite 
indolent about those great concerns that 
set the bustling busy sons of care agog ; 
and if I have to answer for the present 
hour, I am very easy with regard to any 
tiling farther. Even the last worthy shift, 
of the unfortunate and the wretched does 
not much terrify me : I know that even 
then my talent for what country-folks call 
" a sensible crack," when once it is sanc- 
tified by a hoary head, would procure me 
so much esteem, that even then — I would 
learn to be happy.* However, I am un- 
der no apprehensions about that ; for, 
though indolent, yet, so far as an extreme- 
ly delicate constitution permits, I am not 
lazy ; and in many things, especially in 
tavern-matters, I am a strict economist; 
not indeed for the sake of the money, but 
one of the principal parts in my composi- 
tion is a kind of pride of stomach, and I 
scorn to fear the face of any man living ; 
above every thing, I abhor, as hell, the 
idea of sneaking in a corner to avoid a 
dun — possibly some pitiful, sordid wretch, 
whom in my heart I despise and detest. 
'Tis this, and this alone, that endears 
economy to me. In the matter of books, 
indeed, I am very profuse. My favourite 
authors are of the sentimental kind, such 

* The last shift alluded to here, must be the conditioa 
of an itinerant beggar. 



92 



LETTERS. 



as Shenstone, particularly his Elegies ; 
Thomson ; Man of Feeling, a book I prize 
next to the Bible ; Man of the World ; 
Sterne, especially his Sentimentaljourney ; 
M'Phersnn's Ossian, &c. These are the 
glorious models after which I endeavour 
to form my conduct ; and -'tis incongru- 
ous, 'tis absurd, to suppose that the man 
whose mind glows with the sentiments 
lighted up at their sacred flame — the man 
whose heart distends with benevolence to 
all the human race — he " who can soar 
above this little scene of things," can he 
descend to mind the paltry concerns about 
which the terraefilial race fret, and fume, 
and vex themselves ? O how the glorious 
triumph swells my heart ! I forget that I 
am a poor insignificant devil, unnoticed 
and unknown, stalking up and down fairs 
and markets, when I happen to be in them, 
reading a page or two of mankind, and 
" catching the manners living as they 
rise," whilst the men of business jostle 
me on every side as an idle incumbrance 
in their way. But I dare say I have by 
this time tired your patience; sol shall 
conclude with begging you to give Mrs. 
Murdoch — not my compliments, for that 
is a mere common-place story, but my 
warmest, kindest wishes for her welfare ; 
and accept of the same for yourself from, 
Dear Sir, Your's, &c. 



No. II. 



The following is taken from the MS. Prose pre- 
sented by our Bard to Mr. Riddel- 

On rummaging over some old papers, I 
lighted on a MIS. of my early years, in 
which I had determined to write myself out, 
•ds I was placed by fortune among a class 
of men to whom my ideas would have 
been nonsense. I had meant that the 
book should have lain by me, in the fond 
hope that, some time or other, even after 
I was no more, my thoughts would fall 
into the hands of somebody capable of ap- 
preciating their value. It sets off thus : 

Observations, Hints, Songs, Scraps of 
Poetrtj, ifc. by R. B. — a man who had 
little art in making money, and still less 
in keeping it ; but was, however, a man of 
Bome sense, a great deal of honesty, and 
luibounded good will to every creature 
rational and irrational. As he was but 
Uttle indebted to scholastic education, 
and bred at a plough-tail, his performan- 



ces must be strongly tinctured with ni» 
unpolished rustic way of life ; but as I 
believe they are really his own, it may be 
some entertainment to a curious observer 
of human nature, to see how a ploughman 
thinks and feels, under the pressure of 
love, ambition, anxiety, grief, with the 
like cares and passions, which, however 
diversified by the modes and manners of 
life, operate pretty much ahke, I believe, 
on all the species. 

" There are numbers in the world who 
do not want sense to make a figure, so 
much as an opinion of their own abilities, 
to put them upon recording their obser- 
vations, and allowing them the same im- 
portance, which they do to those which 
appear in print." — Shenstone. 

" Pleasing, when youth is longcxpir'd, to trace 
The forms our pencil or our pen designed ! 

Such was our youthful air, and shape, and face, 
Such the soft image of our youthful mind." — Ibid' 

April, 1 783. 
Notwithstanding all that has been said 
against love, respecting the folly and 
weakness it leads a young inexperienced 
mind into ; still I think it in a great mea- 
sure deserves the highest encomiums 
that have been passed upon it. If any 
thing on earth deserves the name of rap- 
ture or transport, it is the feelings of green 
eighteen, in the company of the mistress 
of his heart, when she repays him with 
an equal return of affection. 



August. 
There is certainly some connexion be- 
tween love, and music, and poetry ; and 
therefore I have always thought a fine 
touch of nature, that passage in a modern 
love composition : 

" As tow'rd her cot he jogg'd along, 
Her name was frequent in his song." 

For my own part, I never had the least 
thought or inclination of turning poet, till 
I got once heartily in love ; and then 
rhyme and song were, in a manner, the 
spontaneous language of my heart. 

September. 
I entirely agree with that judicious 
philosopher, Mr. Smith, in his excellent 
Theory of Moral Sentiments, that remorse 
is the most painful sentiment that can im- 
bitter the human bosom. Any ordinary 



LETTERS. 



93 



pi'ch of fortitude may bear up tolerably 
well under those calamities, in the pro- 
cureinoni of which we ourselves have had 
no hand ; but when our own follies, or 
crimes have made us miserable and 
wretched, to bear up with manly firm- 
ness, and at the same time have a proper 
penetential sense of our misconduct, is a 
glorious effort of self command. 

"Of all the numerous ills that hurt our peace, 

That press the soul, or wring the mind with anguish, 

Beyond comparison the worst are those 

That to our folly or our guilt we owe. 

In every other circumstance the mind 

Was this to say — ' It was no deed of mine ;' 

But when to all the evils of misfortune 

This sting is added — ' Blame thy foolish self;' 

Or worser far, the pangs of keen remorse ; 

The torturing, gnawing consciousness of guilt — 

Of guilt, perhaps, where we've involved others; 

The younj, the innocent, who fondly lov'd us, 

Nay, more, that very love their cause of ruin ! 

O burning hell ! in all thy store of torments, 

There's not a keener lash ! 

Lives there a man so firm, who, while his heart 

Feels all the bitter horrors of his crime, 

Can reason down its agonizing throbs ; 

And, after proper purpose of amendment. 

Can firmly force his jarring thoughts to peace? 

O happy ! happy I enviable man ! 

O glorious magnanimity of soul!" 



March, 1784. 
I have often observed, in the course of 
my experience of human life, that every 
man, even the worst, has something good 
about him ; though very often nothing else 
than a happy temperament of constitution 
inclining him to this or that virtue. For 
this reason, no man can say in what de- 
gree any other person, besides himself, 
can be, with strict jijstice, called wicked. 
Let any of the strictest character for re- 
gularity of conduct among us, examine 
impartially how many vices he has never 
been guilty of, not from any care or vigi- 
lance, but for want of opportunity, or 
eome accidental circumstanceintervening; 
how many of the weaknesses of mankind 
he has escaped, because he was out of the 
line of such temptation ; and, what often, 
if not always, weighs more than all the 
rest, how much he is indebted to the 
world's good opinion, because the world 
does not know all. I say any man who 
can thus think, will scan the failings, nay, 
the faults and crimes, of mankind around 
him, with a brother's eye. 

I have often courted the acquaintance 



of that part of mankind commonly known 
by the ordinary phrase of blackguards, 
sometimes farther tiian was consistent 
with the safety of my character ; those 
who, by thoughtless prodigality or head- 
strong passions have been driven to ruin. 
Though disgraced by follies, nay, some- 
times " stained with guilt, * * * * 
* *," I have yet found among them, in 
not a few instances, some of the noblest 
virtues, magnanimity, generosity, disin- 
terested friendship, and even modesty 



April. 
As I am what the men of the world, if 
they knew such a man, would call a whim- 
sical mortal, I have various sources of 
pleasure and enjoyment, which are, in a 
manner, ptculiur to myself, or some here 
and there such other out-of-the-way per- 
son. Such is the peculiar pleasure I take 
in the season of winter, more than the 
rest of the year. This, I believe, maybe 
partly owing to my misfortunes giving 
my mind a melancholy cast ; but there ia 
something even in the 

" Mighty tempest, and the hoary waste 

Abrupt and deep, stretch'd o'er the buried earth," — 

which raises the mind to a serious subli- 
mity, favourable to every thing great and 
noble. There is scarcely any earthly ob- 
ject gives me more — I do not know if I 
should call it pleasure — but something 
which exalts me, something which en- 
raptures me — than to walk in the shel- 
tered side of a wood, or high plantation, 
in a cloudy winter-day, and hear the 
stormy wind howling among the trees and 
raving over the plain. It is my best sea- 
son for devotion ; my mind is rapt up in a 
kind of enthusiasm to Him^ who in the 
pompous language of the Hebrew bard, 
" walks on the wings of the wind." In 
one of these seasons, just after a train of 
misfortunes, I composed the following : 

The wintry west extends his blast, &c.— Poems, p. 39. 

Shenstone finely observes, that love- 
verses writ without any real passion, arc 
the most nauseous of all conceits ; and I 
have often thought that no man can be a 
proper critic of love composition, except 
he himself, in one or more instances, have 
been a warm votary of this passion. As 
I have been all along a miserable dupe to 
love, and have been led into a thousand 
weaknesses and follies by it, for that rea 



94 



LETTERS. 



son 1 put the more confidence in my cri- 
tical skill, in distinguishing foppery and 
conceit Ironi roiil passion and nature. 
Whotlior the {bllovving song will stand 
the test, [ will not pretend to say, because 
it is my own ; only I can say it was, at 
the time genuine from the heart. 

Dcliind yon hills, &c. See Poems, p. 59. 



T think the whole species of young men 
may he naturally enough divided into two 
grand classes, which I shall call the grave 
and the merry ; though, by the by, these 
terms do not with propriety enough ex- 
press my ideas. The grave I shall cast 
into the usual division of those w^ho arc 
goaded on by tlie love of money, and those 
whose darling wish is to make a figure in 
the world. The merry are, the men of 
pleasure of all denominations; the jovial 
lads, who liave too much fire and spirit to 
have any settled rule of action ; but, with- 
out much deliberation follow the strong 
impulses of nature : the thoughtless, the 
careless, the indolent — in particular lu\ 
who, with a happy sweetness of natural 
temper, and a cheerful vacancy of thought, 
steals through life — generally, indeed, in 
poverty and obscurity ; but poverty and 
obscurity are only evils to him who can 
sit gravely down and make a repining 
comparison between his own situation and 
that of others; and lastly, to grace the 
quorum, such as are, generally, those 
whose heads are capable of all thetower- 
ings of genius, and whose hearts are 
warmed with all the delicacy of feeling. 



As the grand end of human life is to 
cultivate an intercourse with that Being 
to whom we owe our life, with every en- 
joyment that can render life delightful ; 
and to maintain an integritive conduct 
towards our fellow-creatures ; that so, by 
forming piety and virtue into habit, we 
may bo fit members for that society of 
the pious and the good, which reason and 
revelation teach us to expect beyond the 
grave ; I do not see that the turn of mind 
and pursuits of any son of poverty and 
obscurity, are in the least more inimical 
to the sacred interests of piety and vir- 
tue, than the, even lawful, bustling and 
straining after the world's riches and ho- 
nours; and I do not see but that he may 



gain Heaven as well (which, by the by. 

is no mean consideration,) who steala 
through the vale of lite, anuising himself 
with every little flower, that fortune 
throws in his way ; as he who, straining 
straight forward, and perhaps bespatter- 
ing all about him, gains some of life's little 
eminences ; where, after all, he can only 
see, and be seen, a little more conspicu- 
ously than what, in the pride of his heart, 
he is apt to term the poor indolent devil 
he has left behind him. 



There is a noble sublimity, a heart- 
melting tenderness, in some of our an- 
cient ballads, wliich show tlicm to be the 
work of a masterly hand ; and it has often 
given me many a heart-ache to reflect, that 
such glorious old bards — bards who very 
probably owed all their talents to native 
genius, yet have described the exploits 
of heroes, the pangs of disappointment, 
and the meltings of love, with such fine 
strokes of nature — that tjieir very names 
(O how mortifying to a bard's vanity !) 
are now " buried among the wreck of 
things which were." 

O ye illustrious names unknown ! who 
could feel so strongly and describe so well, 
the last, the meanest of the muses' train 
— one who, though far inferior to your 
flights, yet eyes your path, and with trem- 
bling wing would sometimes soar after 
you — a poor rustic bard unknown, pays 
this sympathetic pang to your memory ! 
Some of you tell us with all the charms of 
verse, that you have been unfortunate in 
the world — unfortunate in love ; he too 
has felt the loss of his little fortune, the 
loss of friends, and, worse than all, the 
loss of the woman he adored. Like yon, 
all his consolation was his muse ; she 
taught him in rustic measures to complain. 
Iluppy could he Juive done it with your 
streugtli of imagination and flow of verse! 
May the turf lie lightly on your bones ! 
and may you now enjoy that solace and 
rest which this world rarely gives to the 
heart tuned to all the feelings of poesy 
and love ! 



This is all worth quoting in my MSS. 
and more than all. 

R. B. 



LETTERS. 



95 



No. IIT. 
TO MR. AIKIN. 

TUf Gentteman to whom the Cotter's Saturday JVigkt 
is addressed. 



Sir, 



Ayrshire, 1786. 



I was with Wilson, my printer, t'othnr 
day, and settled all our by-gone matters 
between us.' After I had paid him all 
demands, I made him the ofl'cr of the se- 
cond edition, on the hazard of beinsT paid 
out of t!ie^/tr.v< and readiest, which he de- 
clines. By his account, the paper of a 
thousand copies would cost about twenty- 
seven pounds, and the printing about fif- 
teen or sixteen ; he offers to agree to this 
for the printing, if I will advance for the 
paper; but this you know, is out of my 
power, so farewell hopes of a second edi- 
tion till I grow richer ! an epocha, which, 
I think, will arrive at the payment of the 
British national debt. 

There is scarcely any thing hnrts me 
BO much in being disappointed of my se- 
cond edition, as not having it in my power 
to show my gratitude to Mr. Ballantyne, 
by publishing my poem of The Brigs of 
Ayr. I would detest myself as a wretch, 
if I thought T were capable, in a very long 
life, of forgetting the honest, warm, and 
tender delicacy with which he enters into 
my interests. I am sometimes pleased 
with myself in my grateful sensations ; 
but I believe, on the whole, I have very 
little merit in it, as my gratitude is not a 
virtue, the consequence of reflection, but 
Bh.eerly the instinctive emotion of a heart 
too inattentive to allow worldly maxims 
and views to settle into selfish habits. 

I have been feeling all the various ro- 
tations and movements within, respecting 
the excise. There are many things plead 
strongly against it, the uncertainty of get- 
ting soon into business, the consequences 
of my follies, which may perhaps make it 
impracticable for me to stay at home ; 
and besides, I have for some time been 
pining under secret wretchedness, from 
causes which you pretty well know — the 
pang of disappointment, the sting of pride, 
with some wandering stabs of remorse, 
which never fail to settle on my vitals 
like vultures, when attention is not c<illed 
away by the calls of society, or the vaga- 
ries of the muse. Even in the hour of 
social mirth, my gavety is the madness of 
an intoxicated criminal under the hands 



of the executioner. All these reasons 
urge me to go abroad ; and to all these 
reasons I have only one answer — the 
feelings of a father. This, in the present 
mood I am in, overbalances everything 
that can be laid in the scale against it. 



You may perhaps think it an extrava- 
gant fancy, but it is a sentiment which 
strikes home to my very soul ; though 
sceptical in some points of our currtmt 
belief, yet, I think, I have every evidence 
for the reality of a life beyond the stint- 
ed bourn of our present existence ; if so, 
then how should I, in the presence of 
that tremendous Being, the Author of 
existence, how should I meet the re- 
proaches of those who stand to me in the 
dear relation of children, whom I desert- 
ed in the smiling innocency of helpless 
infancy? O thou great, unknown Power! 
thou Almighty God ! who has lighted up 
reason in my breast, and blessed me with 
immortality ! I have frequently wandered 
from that order and regularity necessary 
for the perfection of thy works, yet thou 
hast never left me nor forsaken me. 



Since I wrote the foregoing sheet, I 
have seen something of the storm of mis- 
chief thickening over my folly-devofed 
head. Should you, my friends, my bene- 
factors, be successful in your applications 
for me, perhaps it may not be in my pow- 
er in that way to reap the fruit of your 
friendly efforts. What I have written in 
the preceding pages is the settled tenor 
of my present resolution ; but should in 
imical circumstances forbid me closing 
with your kind offer, or, enjoying it, only 
threaten to entail farther misery — 



To tell the truth, I have little reason 
for complaint, as the world, in general, 
has been kind to me, fully up to my de- 
serts. I was, for some time past, fast 
getting into the pining, distrustful snarl 
of the misanthrope. I saw myself alone, 
unfit for tiie struggle of life, shrinking at 
every rising cloud in the chance-directed 
atmosphere of fortune, while, all defence- 
less, I looked about in vain for a cover. 
It never occurred to me, at least never 
with the force it deserved, that this world 
is a busy scene, and man a creature deii- 



96 



LETTERS. 



lined for a progressive struggle; and tliat 
however I might possess a warm heart, 
and inoffensive manners, (which last, by 
the by, was rather more than I could 
well boast) still, more than these passive 
qualities, there was something to be done. 
When all my school-fellows and youthful 
compeers (those misguided few excepted 
who joined, to use a Gentoo phrase, the 
hallachorcs of the human race,) were stri- 
king off with eager hope and earnest in- 
tention some one or other of the many 
paths of busy life, I was standing ' idle in 
the market-place,' or only left the chase 
of the buttertiy from flower to flower, to 
hunt fancy from whim to whim. 



You see. Sir, that if to know one's er- 
rors were a probability of mending them, 
I stand a fair chance, but, according to 
the reverend Westminster divines, thousrh 
conviction must precede conversion, it is 
very far from always implying it.* 



NO. IV 



TO MRS. DUNLOP OF DUNLOP. 

Ayrshire, 1786. 

MADAM, 

I AM truly sorry I was not at home 
yesterday when I was so much honoured 
with your order for my copies, and incom- 
parably more by the handsome compli- 
ments you are pleased to pay my poetic 
abilities. I am fully persuaded that there 
is not any class of mankind so feelingly 
alive to the titillations of applause, as the 
sons of Parnassus ; nor is it easy to con- 
ceive how the heart of the poor bard dan- 
ces with rapture, when those whose cha- 
racter in life gives them a right to be po- 
lite judges, honour him witJi their appro- 
bation. Had you been thoroughly ac- 
quainted with me. Madam, you could not 
have touched my darling heart-chord more 
sweetly than by noticing my attempts to 
celebrate your illustrious ancestor, the 
Saviour of his Country. 

" Great patriot-hero ; ill-requited chief 1" 

•This letter was evidently written under the dis- 
tress of iniiid nccaslonud by our Poet's separation from 
Mrs. Burns. E 



The first book I met with in my early 
years, which I perused with pleasure, was 
The Life of Hannibal ; the next was The 
History of Sir Wiliiam Wallace ; for se- 
veral of my earlier years I had few other 
authors ; and many a solitary hour have I 
stole out, after the laborious vocations of 
the day, to shed a tear over their glori- 
ous but unfortunate stories. In those 
boyish days I rememoer in particular be- 
ing struck with that part of Wallace's 
story where these lines occur — 

" Syne to the Leglen wood, when it was late, 
To make a silent and a safe retreat." 

I chose a fine summer Sunday, the only 
day my line of life allowed, and walked 
half a dozen of miles to pay my respects 
to the Leglen wood, with as much devout 
enthusiasm as ever pilgrim did to Loret- 
to ; and, as I explored, every den and del] 
where I could suppose my heroic country- 
man to have lodged, I recollect (for even 
then I was a rhymer) that my heart glow- 
ed with a wish to be able to make a song 
on him in some measure equal to h'a 
merits 



NO. V. 



TO MRS. STEWART, OF STAIR. 



1786. 



MADAM, 



The hurry of my preparations for go- 
ing abroad has hindered me from perform- 
ing my promise so soon as I intended, I have 
here sent you a parcel of songs, &c. which 
never made their appearance, except to a 
friend or two at most. Perhaps some of 
them may be no great entertainment to 
you ; but of that I am far from being an 
adequate judge. The song to the tune 
of Ettrick Banks, you will easily see the 
impropriety of exposing much, even in 
manuscript. I think, myself, it has some 
merit, both as a tolerable description of 
one of Nature's sweetest scenes, a July 
evening, and one of the finest pieces of 
Nature's workmanship the finest, indeed, 
we know any thing of, an amiable, beau- 
tiful young woman ;* but I have no com- 
mon friend to procure me that permis- 
sion, without which I would not dare to 
spread the copy. 

* The song enclosed is the one beginninsj:, 

'Twaseven — the dewy fields were green, Sec 
See Poems, p. IS 



LETTERS. 



&7 



I am quite Rware, INfadam, what task 
tlio world wo.ikl assign me in this letter. 
The obscure bard, when any of the great 
condescend to take notice of him, should 
heap the altar with the incense of flatte- 
ry. Tlieir high ancestry, their own great 
and godlike qualities and actions, should 
be recounted with the most exaggerated 
description. This, Madam, is a task for 
which I am altogether unfit. Besides a 
certain disqualifying pride of heart, I know 
nothing of your connexions in life, and have 
no access to where your real character 
is to be found — the company of your com- 
peers ; and more, I am afraid that even 
the most refined adulation is by no means 
the road to your good opinion. 

One feature of your character I shall 
ever with grateful pleasure remember — 
the reception I got when I had the ho- 
nour of waiting on you at Stair. I am 
little acquainted with politeness ; but I 
know a good deal of benevolence of tem- 
per and goodness of heart. Surely, did 
those in exalted stations know how hap- 
py they could make some classes of their 
inferiors by condescension and affability, 
they would never stand so high, measur- 
ing out with every look the height of 
their elevation, but condescend as sweet- 
ly as did Mrs. Stewart of Stair. 



No. VI. 



IN THE NAME OF THE NINE. AmEN. 

We Robert Burns, by virtue of a War- 
rant from Nature, bearing date the 
Twenty-fifth day of January, Anno Do- 
mini one thousand seven hundred and fif- 
ty-nine,* Poet-Laureat and Bard in 
Chief in and over the Districts and 
Countries of Kyle, Cunningham, and 
Carrick, of old extent, To our trusty 
and well-beloved Wii.eiam Chalmers 
and John M'Adam, Students and Prac- 
titioners in the ancient and mysterious 
Science of Confounding Right and 
Wrong. 

Right Trusty, 

Bfl it known unto you, That whereas, 
in the course of our care and watchings 
over the Order and Police of all and sun- 
dry the Manufacturers, Retainers, 
and Vendehs of Poesy ; Bards, Poets, 
Pnetas'ers, Rhymers, Jinglers, Songsters, 
Ballad singers, &-c., &c., &c., &.C., fcc, 

» ^is l)irlli-day. 



male and female — We have discovered a 
certain * * *, nefarious, abominable, and 
Wicked Song, or Ballad, a copy where- 
of We have here enclosed ; Our Will 
therefore is, that Ye pitch upon and 
appoint the most execrable Individual of 
that most execrable Species, known by 
the appellation, phrase, and nickname of 
The Deil's Yell Nowte ;* and, afler 
having caused him to kindle a fire at the 
Cross of Ayr, ye shall at noontide of 
the day, put into the said wretch's mer- 
ciless hands the said copy of the said ne- 
farious and wicked Song, to be consumed 
by fire in the presence of all Beholders, 
in abhorrence of, andterrorum to all such 
Compositions and Composers. And this 
in no wise leave ye undone, but have it 
executed in every point as this Our Man- 
date bears before the twenty-fourth cur- 
rent, when IN person We hope to ap- 
plaud your faithfulness and zeal. 

Given at Mauchline, this twentieth 
day of November, Anno Domini one thou- 
sand seven hundred and eighty-six. f 
God save the bard ! 



No. VII. 

DR. BLACKLOCK 

TO THE REVEREND MR. G. 

LOWRIE. 

REVEREND AND DEAR SIR, 

I OUGHT to have acknowledged your 
favour long ago, not only as a testimony 
of your kind remembrance, but as it gave 
me an opportunity of sharing one of the 
finest, and, perhaps, one of the most genu- 
ine entertainments, of which the human 
mind is susceptible. A number of avoca- 
tions retarded my progress in reading the 
poems ; at last, however, I have finished 
that pleasing perusal. Many instances 
have I seen of Nature's force and benefi- 
cence exerted under numerous and formi 
dable disadvantages : but none equal t<i 
that with which you have been kind enough 
to present me. There is a pathos and deli- 
cacy in his serious poems, a vein of wit and 
humour in those of a more festive turn, 
which cannot bo too much admired, nor too 
warmly approved ; and Ithhik I shall never 

* Old Bachelors. 

t Enclosed was the ballad, probably Holy WWie's 
Prayer, E. 



98 



LETTERS. 



open the book without feeling' my aston- 
isliment renewed and increased. It was 
my wish to have expressed my approba- 
tion in verse ; hut whether from declining 
life, or a temporary depression of spirits, 
it is at present out of my power to accom- 
plish that agreeable intention. 

Mr. Stewart, Professor of Morals in 
this University, had formerly read me 
three of the poems, and I had desired him 
to get my name inserted among the sub- 
Bcribcrs ; but whether this was done, or 
not, I never could learn. T have little 
intercourse with Dr. Blair, but will take 
care to have the poems communicated to 
him by the intervention of some mutual 
friend. It has been told me by a Gentle- 
man, to whom I showed the performances, 
and who sought a copy with diligence and 
ardour, that the whole impression is al- 
ready exhausted. It were, therefore, 
much to be wished, for the sake of the 
young man, that a second edition, more 
numerous than the former, could imme- 
diately be printed : as it appears certain 
that its intrinsic merit and the exertion of 
the author's friends, might give it a more 
universal circulation than any thing of 
the kind which has been published within 
my memory.* 



No. VIII. 
FROM THE REVEREND MR 
LOWRIE. 

22d December, 1786. 

DEAR SIR, 

I LAST week received a letter from 
Dr. Blacklock, in wliich he expresses a 
desire of seeing you, I write this to you, 
that you may lose no time in waiting 
upon him, should you not yet have seen 
him. 



I rejoice to hear, from all corners, of your 

* The reader will perceive that this is the letter which 
produced the dclcnninatinn of oiir Uard to give np his 
Echeine of coin" to til's West Indies, and to try the fate 
of a new Edition of Ins Poems in Edinburgh. A copy 
of this letter was sent by Mr, Lowrie to Mr. G. Ilnniil- 
ton, and by him communicated to liurns, among whoso 
pspers it was found. 

For an account of Mr. Lowrie and his family, see the 
Ifltcr of Gilbert Burns to llie liditor. 



rising fame, and I wish and expect it may 
tower still higher by the new publication. 
But, as a friend, I warn you to prepare to 
meet with your share of detraction and 
envy — a train that always accompany 
great men. For your comfort I am in 
great hopes that the number of your 
friends and admirers will increase, and 
that you have some chance of ministerial, 
or even * * * * -i: patronage. Now, my 
friend, such rapid success is very uncom- 
mon : and do you think yourself in no 
danger of sufiering by applause and a full 
purse .'' Remember Solomon's advice, 
which he spoke from experience, " stron- 
ger is he that conquers," &c. Keep fast 
hold of your rural simplicity and purity, 
like Telemachus, by Mentor's aid, in 
Calypso's isle, or even in that of Cyprus. 
I hope 7/oxi have also Minerva with you. 
I need not tell you how much a modest 
diffidence and invincible temperance adorn 
the most shining talents, and elevate the 
mind, and exalt and refine the imagina 
tion, even of a poet. 

I hope you will not imagine I speak 
from suspicion or evil report. I assure 
you I speak from love and good report, 
and good opinion, and a strong desire to 
see you shine as much in the simshine as 
you have done in the shade ; and in the 
practice, as you do in the theory of vir- 
tue. This is my prayer, in return for 
your elegant composition in verse. All 
here join in compliments and good wishes 
for your further prosperity. 



No. IX. 



TO MR. CHALMERS. 

Edinburgh, 27th Dec. 1786. 

MY DEAR FRIEND, 

I CONFESS I have sinned the sin for 
which there is hardly any forgiveness — 
ingratitude to friendship — in not writing 
you sooner ; but of "all men living, I had 
intended to send you an entertaining let- 
ter ; and by all the plodding stupid pow- 
ers that in nodding conceited majesty pre- 
side over the dull routine of business — a 
heavily solemn oath this ! — I am, and 
have been ever since I came to Edinburgli 
as unfit to write a letter of humour as to 
write a commentarv on the Revelalmis. 



LETTERS. 



n 



To make you some amends for what, 
before you reach tliis paragraph you will 
have suffered, I enclose you t,wo poems I 
have carded and spun since I passed Glen- 
buck. One blank in the address to Edin- 
burgh, " Fair B ," is the heavenly 

Miss Burnet, daughter to Lord Monbod- 
do, at whose house I had the honour to be 
more than once. There has not been 
any thing nearly like her, in all the com- 
binations of beauty, grace, and goodness, 
the great Creator has formed, since Mil- 
ton's Eve on the first day of her existence. 

I have sent you a parcel of subscription- 
bills ; and have written to Mr. Ballantyne 
and Mr. Aiken, to call on you for some of 
them, if they want them. My direction 
is — care of Andrew Bruce, Merchant, 
Bridge-street. 



No. X. 



TO THE EARL OF EGLINTON. 
Edinburgh, January, 1787. 

MY LORD, 

As T have but slender pretensions to 
philosophy, I cannot rise to the exalted 
ideas of a citizen of the world ; but have 
all those national prejudices which, I be- 
lieve, grow peculiarly strong in the breast 
of a Scotchman. There is scarcely any 
thing to which I am so feelingly alive ; 
as the honour and welfare of my country; 
and, as a poet, I have no higher enjoy- 
ment than singing her sons and daugh- 
ters. Fate had cast my station in the 
vet iest shades of life ; but never did a 
heart pant more ardently than mine, to 
be distinguished ; though till very lately, 
T looked in vain on every side for a ray 
of light. It is easy, then, to guess how 
much I was gratified with the counte- 
nance and approbation of one of my coun- 
try's most illustrious sons, when Mr. 
Wauchope called on me yesterday on the 
part of your Lordship. Your munificence, 
my Lord, certainly deserves my very 
grateful acknowledgments ; but your pat- 
ronage is a bounty peculiarly suited to 
my feelings. I am not master enough of 
the etiquette of life, to know whether 
there be not some impropriety in troub- 
ling your Lordship with my thanks ; but 
my heart whispered me to do it. From 
the emotions of my inmost Boul I do it. 
Selfish ingratitude, T hope, I am incapa- 
ble of; and mercenary servility, I trust I 
shall ever have so much honest pride as 
to detest. 

u 



No. XI. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 
Edinburgh, lEilk January, 1787 

MADAM, 

Yours of the 9th current, which I am 
this moment honoured with, is a deep re- 
proach to me for ungrateful neglect. I 
will tell yo\i the real truth, for I am mise- 
rably awkward at a fib ; I wished to have 
written to Dr. Moore before I wrote to 
you ; but though, every day since I re- 
ceived yours of December 30th, the idea, 
the wish to write to him, has constantly 
pressed on my thoughts, yet I could not 
for my soul set about it. I know his fame 
and character, and I am one of " the sons 
of little men." To write him a mere mat- 
ter-of-fact affair, like a merchant's order, 
would be disgracing the little character I 
have ; and to write the author of The 
View of Society and Manners a letter of 
sentiment — I declare every artery runs 
cold at the thought. I shall try, how- 
ever, to write to him to-morrow or next 
day. His kind interposition in my behalf 
I liave already experienced, as a gentle- 
man waited on me the other day on the 
part of Lord Eglington, with ten guineas, 
by way of subscription for two copies of 
my next edition. 

The word you object to in the mention 
I have made of my glorious countryman 
and your immortal ancestor, is indeed bor- 
rowed from Thomson ; but it does not 
strike me as an improper epithet. I dis- 
trusted my own judgment on your finding 
fault with it, and applied for the opinion 
of some of the literati here, who honour 
me with their critical strictures, and they 
all allow it to be proper. The song you 
ask I cannot recollect, and I have not a 
copy of it. I have not composed any 
thing on the great Wallace, except what 
you have seen in print, and the inclosed, 
which I will print in this edition.* You 
will see I have mentioned some others of 
the name. When I composed my Vision 
long ago, 1 attempted a description of 
Koyle,"of which the additional stanzas 
are a part, as it originally stood. My 
heart glows with a wish to be able to do 
justice to the merits, of the Saviour of his 
Country, which, sooner or later, I shall at 
least attempt. 

* Stanzas in the rislcn, be<rmnina " V.y stately tnwer 
or palace fuir " and ending with tlie first Diiaii. E. 



100 LF/n 

You itrn nlViud T shall prow intoxicated 
with my pr()S|)(>rity iis a poet. Alas! 
MihIiuii, 1 know tiiysciraiKl the world too 
well. 1 do no( iiu'iin any airs ofallVctcd 
modesty ; 1 nm willino- to heliev(! that my 
ahilities (h'S(>rved some iiotiro; hut in a 
most cuiifihteued, inlornu'd acfo aiui un- 
tiou, whcM poetry is nud luis hecn tlie 
study of m(M\ of the lirst uatiirnl ijeuiiis, 
aided wilii all the powers of polite learu- 
iuff, polite hooks, and jiolitc eom|>any — 
to h(^ drjiLVtjed liirth to the full plart; of 
h>arned and polil(> ohservatiou, with all 
my imi)erfeetious of awkward rusticity 
nud crude uupidished idens on my head — 
I !isKur(> you, Madam, I do not dissemhlo 
when I tell you I treud)le for the conse- 
quences. The novelty of a po(>t in my 
ohscure situatiiui, without any of those 
ndvautafjes which are reckoned lU'cesf^ary 
for that character, at h>!ist at this time of 
day, has raised a partial tide of |)ul)lic no- 
lice, which has home me to a heiiijht where 
I nm ahsohitidy, feelingly ctu't a in my ahi- 
lities are iiuidiMiuate td sui)port nu; ; and 
too purtdy do 1 see that i'une when liui 
sa\ne tide will l(Viv(^ me, and reced(^, per- 
haps, as far helow the nuirk of truth. I 
do not say this in the ridiculous atl'ecta- 
tion of self-ahasement and nuidesty. 1 
luive studied myself, and know what 
ijround I occupy ; and, howevi^r a frieiul 
or the world may diiler from me in that 
particular, 1 stand for my own opinion in 
silent nvsolve, with all tiu^ tenaciousness 
t>f |n-operty. I nuMition this to you, onco 
i'or all, to dishur<Ien my mind, and I do 
not wish to hear or say more ahout it. — 
But 

" WImmi ]iiiiml loitmio's chliiii^ tiilo rccoilos," 

you will hear me witness, that, when my 
huhhU>of fame was at the hiivhest, 1 stood, 
mrmtoxicaied, with the inehriatino- rup 
in my hand, lookiufr forward with rueful 
resolve to the hasteniuijf time when the 
blow of Cahuuny should dash it to the 
flfrouud, with all the eagerness of venge- 
ful triumph. 



Your patronisiuiT me, and interestinjj 
yours(>lf in my fame and character as a 
poet, I rej(Vice in ; it exalts mo in my own 
idea : ami whether yon can or cannot aid 
me in my suhseriptiou is a trith^ lias a 
paltry subscript ion-hill any charms to thi^ 
heart of a bard, C(uniiared wit h^' he pat- 
ron.'ijje of the descendant of the inunortal 
Wallace? 



ERS. 



No. XTI. 
TO DR. MOORE. 



nm. 



sin, 



Mrs. Duni.op has been so kind as to 
send UK) (extracts of letters she has had 
tVom you, wlii-re you do the rustic bare 
t In; hono\ir of not iciujr liiui and his works. 
Those who have felt the; anxieties ami 
solicitude of authorshi]), can only know 
what pleasure it jjivrs to bo noticed in 
siu'Ii a manner by 'puloes of the first cha- 
racter. Your criticisms, Sir, I receive 
with reverence ; only I am sorry they 
mostly came too late ; a peccant pass!i£jo 
or two, that I would certainly have alter- 
ed, w(M'e {^'one to the press. 

The hope to be admired for acfos is, in 
by far the ij'reat.er part of those even who 
were authors of repute, an unsubstantial 
dream. For my part, my first aud)ition 
was, and still my stronjjest wish is, to 
please my comiieers, tlu' rustic inmatesof 
tlu> hamlet, while ever-chaufTiuo'laufjuaijo 
and manners shall allow uu> to be relished 
and \md(M-stood. I am very williufx to 
admit thatl have sonu^ poetical abilities ; 
and as few, if any writers, cither moral 
or political, are intimately accpiaiuted 
with the classes of nniukind amoui^whom 
T have chietly minjjled, I may have seen 
men and nuinners in a ditVer(Mit phasia 
from what is couuuon, which nuiy assist 
(U-io-iuality of thoufiht. Still I know very 
well the novelty of my character has by 
far tin; i;-reat(>st share in the learned rnd 
polite notice 1 have lately had ; and iij a 
Ian<xuas};e where Pope anil Churchill have 
raised thi^ lauji'li, and Shenstou(> and (Jray 
drawn the tear — where Thomson and 
Heattie have i)aiuted the landscape, and 
liVttleton and (\)llins descrilxMl the lu^avt, 
1 am not vain enou<<[h to hope for distin- 
•^nished poetic fame. 



No. XIII. 
FROM DR. MOORE. 
Clifford-street, January 23rf, 1787. 



sin. 



T u AVK. just received your letter, by 
which I find I have reason to complain of 
my friend INIrs. Dnulop, for transmitting 
to yon extracts from my letters fo her, 
by much too freely and too carelessly 



LETTERS. 



101 



writfon for yonr pornsnl. I iniiHt forpivo 
lifir, liowcvor, in (•oriHidf'rat ion of Itcj i^'ood 
mtoMlion, as y'>" will lorfrivo inc, I lio|>(', 
for llic rrccdom I iiho wil li ccrtiun cxprrH- 
sionn, in coiisicNiriilion of my iiditiiidlioii 
oCiIk! poems in ^rciiciiil. 1 1' I may JMdjro 
ofllic aniiior'H disposition IVoin liis vvorl(H, 
with all Ui(! trood (pmlilicH of a poet., ho 
has not tho irrilalilc. tciri|)((r anrribcd to 
that race of mon by ono of thoir own 
nnmlxT, wliom yon Iiavt; thf; ha|)pin('HH to 
rrsiMoldc! in (!as(! and rurioux fdiiiti/ of 
(•xpiM^ssion. Inilci'd the porticnl l)('iuiti(!H, 
JioW(!V(.'r orifjiniil and liriiliiiiit, and hivish- 
ly Kcattorod, arc not ail I admiro in yonr 
works; tlio iovo of yonr native country, 
that fcclinir scnsil>ilily to all tlii! <d)i(!(;tH 
of humanity, and tin; indopcnilcnt spirit 
which hrcatlniH throufrh tho whol(>, f^'ivo 
ino a most favonrahh; impriissiun of llnr 

roct, and lniv(! made mo often repfrc't that 
(lid nr)t so(; the? jioems, therc^rtiiiii ell'ect 
of which wmild have hecwi iriy seciiiifr tin; 
author liist snnnner, when I was Ioniser 
in Scotland than 1 have been for many 
yoarH. 

T rejoice very Rincornly nt thn nncon- 
raf^em(!nt yon receive at Kdinbiirffh, and 
1 think yon peculiarly fortunate in the 
patronajTf; of |)r. Mliiir, who I am inform- 
ed intcr(!Ht8 hiniH(df v(;ry nmcli for yon. 
I bnjT to be remembered to him: noljody 
can have a warnn'r retfiird for that f^eii- 
tlerrwin tiian I liav(!, whirdi, independent 
of the worth of his characti-r, would Ix; 
kept, alive by \\u' irKiinory (;f our cotmnon 
friend, the late Mr. George J5 e. 

Before T received yonr ]ett(!r, T went in- 
closed in a l(!tter to , a Koiinet by 

MisH Willifims a younfj jioetifwi,! lady, 
which she wrote on rcMidin;^ your Moun- 
tain- Daisy; p(;rha[)S it may not disph^ase 
you.* 

I have been trying to add to the num- 

* TIk! Sonrif't I* nH follown: 

Wlilln H'Kni " Hid (,'nrilcii'H ftiiiiiitlriK tlow'rH" dccny 

And BcriUcrM on flu: fiirtli ni'KJcclcd ||r, 
Till! " Monnlnlii niilny," clicrlHli'd liy llic my 

A pnct i\xi-\N from Imiivrii, mIuiII tuvi^r illii. 
All! lilir the lonrOy (liivvf^r the port roKC ! 

' Mill priiiiry'H luiic soil mill hittiT (';<li-: 
lie felt (•(icli KKiiiii tlijil OTI llii; riioiliilnlii lilowd, 

Nor «'V(;r knew IIk! KliclKrr o( llic viili'. 
By C(iiiuK In Imt tiiillvp vlifoiir iiihki il, 

(III niiliird Willi liiipiiHxioiril lo(il< Ik; Kii/.fil, 
Tliiii iliroiit'li iIk: rloiid ol' ndvcrHi- forliinc liiiiin 

Iiiilit'iiiiiil, iiiiil ill IJL'lil iiiiliorriiwM lilii/.cfl 
Scoli.'i: from riidi' iidlirilniiH kIiIcM lliy li.-iril, 
liwliciivuii liiunlit Miimliur!* riiuio lii:rHolf will jjuard. 



bor of yonr flnbacribers, but find miiny of 
my acrpiaintance tire alreiidy iimong t.hein- 
I have only to add, thnt with every sen- 
timent of esteiim and the moist cordial 
good wishes, 
1 am, 

Your obedient, humbh; servant, 
J. MOORE. 



No. XIV. 



TO 

N 



TlIK REV. 
OW-MILES, 
NOCK. 



(J. I.OWUIK, OK 
N 10 Ail KII.MAIt- 



Kdinhargh, rdk Fih. I7!;7. 

KIOVh'.llKNI) AND DIOAIl Hill, 

WiiKN I look at 1h(! datf! of your 
kind letter, my heart reproaches mi! se- 
veridy with iujrratitudi! in iiegleciing so 
long to answer it. I will not trouble yon 
with any ai'f^oiint, I)y way of" 'ipology, of 
my hurried lilii and distracted iittention: 
do rne \.\n' justicf; to brdieve that my delay 
by no means procee<led from want of re- 
spect. I feid, and ever shall lijid, f()r yon, 
th<! mingled sentiirKMits of esteem for u 
frii^nd, and reverence for a father. 

T fliaiik yon. Sir, with all my soul, for 
your frieiully hints; though I do not need 
them HO nnicli as my fric^nds are a[)t to 
imagine. You iir(! dazzled with newspa- 
|»er accounts and dist.ant rei)ortH ; but in 
reality, I hii,ve no great temptiition to bo 
intoxical.(!d wit.h the cup ol" prosperity. 
Novelty miiy nttnict, th<! attention of man- 
kind awhile ; (o it I owe my present eclat ; 
but I H(!(! th(! time not far rlistant, when 
the popular tidf!, which has borne me to a 
height of which i am jKjrhaps unworthy, 
shall n!ced(! with silent ciderity, and leave 
me a barren waste of sand, to descend at 
my leisure to my former station. I do 
not Riiy this in thr; adectation of modesty ; 
1 see tilt! coiiserpierice is unavoidable, and 
inn prepared for it. I had been at a good 
d(!al of piiins to form a just, impartial i-s- 
timate of my intellectual ])OW(!rH, heforo 
I (Minie here; I have not added, Hince I 
(;am<! to Edinburgh, any thing to tho 
iiccount; and I trust I simll take every 
iiloiri of it liMck tfi my shadi's, the coverts 
of my iimioiiced, eiirly years. 

In T)r. IJlncklock, whom I Kce very of- 
ten, I have found, whiit f wouhl have ex- 
pecti'd in our fiieiwlj a clear head and xn 
excellent heart. 



102 



LETTERS. 



By far tlip most agreeable hours I spend 
jri Etlinbiiroh must be placed to the ac- 
covuit of I\liss Lowvieaiul Iior piano-forte. 
I cannot help rcpeatino; to you and Mrs. 
Lowrio a cnmplimont tliat Mr. Macken- 
zie, the celebrated " Man of Feeling," 
paid to ]\liss Lowrie, tlio otiier night, at 
the concert. I had come in at the inter- 
liido, and sat down by liini, till I saw Miss 
Lowrie in a seat not very far distant, and 
went up to pay my respects to her. On 
my return to Mr. Mackenzie, lie asked 
mo who she was; I told him 'twas the 
daughter of a reverend friend of mine in 
the west country. He returned. There 
was something very striking, to iiis idea, 
in her appearance. On my desiring to 
know what it was, he was ])lcased to say, 
" She has a great deal of tlic elegance of 
a well-bred lady about her, with all the 
sweet simplicity of a country-girl." 

My compliments to all the happy in- 
mates of Saint Margarets. 

I am, dear Sir, 

Yours most gratefully, 

ROBT. BURNS. 



No. XV. 
TO DR. MOORE. 

Edinburgh, ISth February, 1787. 



Pardon my seeming neglect in de- 
laving so long to acknowledge the honour 
you liave done me, in your kind notice of 
me, January 23d. Not many moutlis ago, 
I knew no other rmploymout than follow- 
nig the plough, nor could boast any thing 
higlier than a distant acquaintance with 
a country clergyman. Mere greatness 
never embarrasses me ; I have nothing to 
ask from the great, and I do not fear their 
judgment; but genius, polished by learn- 
ing, and at its proper point of elevation in 
thn eye of the world, this of late I fro- 
quentiy meet with, and tremble at its 
ajiproacli. I scorn the afl'ectation of seem- 
incr modesty to cover self-conceit. That 
I have some merit, I do not deny ; hut I 
see, with freqiient wriugings of henrt, 
that the novelty of mv character, and tlie 
lionest national prejudice of my country- 
men, have borne me to a height altoge- 
ther untenable to my abilities. 



For the honour Miss W. has done me, 
please, Sir, return lier, in my name, my 
most grateful thanks. I liave more tliai; 
once tliought of pa^'ing her in kind, but 
liave liitiierto quitted tlu^ idea in hopeless 
despondency. I had never before heard 
of her; but the other day I got her po- 
ems, wliich, for several reasons, some be- 
longing to the head, ami others the off- 
spring of the heart, gave me a great deal 
of pleasure. I have little pretensions to 
critic lore: there are, I tliink, two cha- 
racteristic features in her poetry — the un- 
fettered wild lliglit of native genius, and 
tlie querulous, sombre tenderness of time- 
settled sorrow. 

I only know what pleases me, often 
without beinjT able to tell wiiv. 



No. XVL 
FROM DR. MOORE. 

CI I ford-Street, 2Sth February, 1787. 

DEAR SIR, 

Your letter of the 1 5th gave me a 
great deal of pleasure. It is not surpri- 
sing that you improve in correctness and 
taste, considering where you have been 
for some time past. And I dare swear 
there is no danger of your admitting any 
polish wiiich migiit weaken the vigour of 
your native powers. 

I am glad to perceive that yon disdain 
the nauseous affectation of decrying your 
own merit as a poet, an affectation wliich 
is displayed with most ostentation by those 
who have the greatest share of self-con- 
ceit, and which only adds undeceiving 
falsehood to disgusting vanity. For you 
to deny the merit of your poems, would 
be arraigning the fixed opinion of the 
public. 

As the new edition of my T'iew of So' 
ricfi/ is not yet ready,'! have sent you the 
former edition, which I beg you will ac- 
cept as a small mark of my esteem. It is 
sent by sea to tlie care of Mr. Creech; 
and along with these four volumes for 
vonrself, I have also sent my J^IcdicaL 
Slrlclirs, in one volume, for my friend 
Mrs. Dunlop, of Dunlop : this you will 
be so obliging as to transmit, or, if you 
cliance to pass soon by Dunlop. to give 
to her. 



LETTERS. 



lod 



I am happy to hoar that, your subscrip- 
tion is so ainplo, niitl shall rojoicn at eve- 
ry piece ol'f!;i)0(i fortune that befalls you, 
for you are a very jfreat favourite in iny 
family; and this is a higher compliment 
tlian, porhai)s, you are aware of. It in- 
cludes almost ail the professions, and, of 
course, is a proof that your writings are 
adapted to various tastes and situations. 
My youngest son, who is at Winehest(;r 
School, writes to mc that he is translating 
some stanzas of your Hallow hVen into 
Latin verse, for the benefit of his com- 
rades. This union of taste partly pro- 
ceeds, no doubt, from the ccmient of Scot- 
tish partiality, with which tiiey are all 
Bora(;wiiat tinctured. Even your IransUt- 
lor. wlio left Scotland too early in life Tor 
recollection, is not without it. 



I remain, with great sincerity, 
Your obedient servant, 

J. MOORE. 



NO. xvn. 

TO THE EARL OF GLENCAIRN. 

Edinburgh, 1707. 
MY Loan, 

I WANTED to purchase a profile of 
your Lordship, which I was told was to 
be got in town : but I am truly sorry to 
see that a blundering painter has spoiled 
a " human face divine." The enclosed 
stanzas I intended to have writt(m below 
a picture or prolile of your Lordship, could 
I have been so happy as to procure one 
with any tiling of a likeness. 

As T will soon return to my slindr>s, T 
wanted to have something like a material 
object for my gratitude ; I wanted to have 
it in my power to say to a friend, Tliere 
is my noble patron, my generous benefac- 
tor. Allow me, my Lord, to publish these 
verses. T conjnro your liordship, by the 
Jionost throe of gratitude, by the generous 
wisli of benevolence, by all the powers 
and fi-elings which compose the magnani- 
mous mind, do not dtMiy mc this petition.* 
I owe much to your Lordship ,• and, what 

* It dops not appea lliat the P-«rl granted this rf(|iirgt, 
nor have the verses alluded to been found among the 
MSS. £. 



hns not in some other instances always 
been the case with ine, the weight of tiio 
obligation is a pleasing load. 1 trust I 
liave a heart as independent as your Lord- 
ship's, than which I can say nothing more: 
And I would not be beholden to favours 
that would crucify my feelings. Your 
dignified cliarncter in life, and manner of 
sui)])orting that character, arc llattering 
to my pride ; and I would be jealous of 
the purity of my grateful attachment 
where I was undiir the patronage of one 
of tlic much-favoured sons of fortune. 

Almost every poet has celebrated his pa- 
trons, psirticiilariy when they wcsre names 
dear to lame, and illustrious in their conn- 
try ; allow me, tlHUi, my Lord, if you think 
the verses have intrinsic merit, to tell tlio 
world how much I have the honour to be, 

Your Lordship's highly indebted, 

and ever grateful humble servant 



No. XVIIL 
TO THE EARL OF BUCHAN. 

MY i.onn, 

Tuf, honour your TiOrdsliip has done 
me, by your notice and advice in yours of 
the 1st instant, 1 shall ever gratefully re- 
member : 

" Praise from tliy lips 'tis tninc witli joy to boast, 
They best can give it wlio deserve it most." 

Your Lordsliip touches the darling 
chord of my heart, when you advise mc 
to fire my muse at Scottish story and 
Scottish scenes. I wish for nothing more 
than to make a leisurely, jjilgrimago 
through my native country: to sit and 
muse on those once liard-contended fields 
wli(!re CalfMloiiia, rejoicing, saw her 
bloody lion borne through broken ranks 
to viclory and fame ; and catching the in- 
spiration, to pour the deathless names in 
song. Jiiit, my Lord, in the midst of 
these enthusiastic reveries, a long-visa- 
ged, dry, moral-looking phantom strides 
across my imagination, and pronounces 
these emphatic words: 

" T wisdom, dwell with prudence. 
Friend T do not come to open the ill-clos- 
(id woundsof your follies and misfortunoB, 
merely to give you pain ; I wish through 
these wounds to imprint a lasting lesson 



104 



LETTERS. 



on your heart. I will not mention how 
many of my salutary advices you have de- 
spised ; I liave given you line upon line, and 
precept upon precept ; and while I was 
chalking out to you the straight way to 
wealth and character, with audacious 
eHrontery, you have zig-zagged across 
the path, contemning nieto my face; you 
know the consequences. It is not yet 
three months since home was so hot for 
you, that you were on the wing for the 
western shore of the Atlantic, not to 
make a fortune, but to hide your misfor- 
tune. 

" Now that your dear-loved Scotia puts 
it in your power to return to the situation 
of your forefathers, will you follow these 
Will-o'-Wisp meteors of fancy and whim, 
till tiicy bring you once more to the bjink 
of ruin ? 1 grant that the utmost ground 
you can occupy is but half a step from the 
veriest poverty ; but still it is half a step 
from it. If all tliat I can urge be inef- 
fectual, let her who seldom calls to you 
in vain, let the call of pride, prevail with 
you. You know how you feel at the iron 
grip of ruthless oppression : you know 
how you bear the galling sneer of con- 
tumelious greatness. I hold you out the 
conveniences, the comforts of life, inde- 
pendence and character, on the one hand; 
I tender yon servility, dependence, and 
wretchedness, on the oiher, I will not in- 
sult your understanding by bidding you 
make a choice."* 

This, my Lord, is unanswerable. I 
must return to my humble station, and 
woo my rustic muse in my wonted way 
at the plough-tail. Still, my Lord, while 
the drops of life warm my heart, grati- 
tude to that dear loved country in which 
I boast my birth, and gratitude to Hiose 
her distinguished sons, who have honour- 
ed me so much with their patronage and 
approbation, shall while stealing through 
my humble shades, ever distend my bo- 
som, and at times, as now, draw forth the 
swelling tear. 



No. XIX. 

Ext. Property in favour of Mr. Robert Burns, to erect 
and keep up a Headstone in memory of Poet Fer- 

gussoii, 1787. 



♦ Copied from the Bee, vol. ii p. 319 and compared 
tvith tlie Author's MS. 



Session-house within the Kirk of Ca- 
nnnn-nte, the twenty-second day oj 
February, one thousand seven hun- 
dred and eighty-seven years. 

SEDERUNT OF THE MANAGERS OF THE KIRK 
ANI) KIRK- YARD FUNDS OF CANONG.\TE. 

Which day, the treasurer to the said 
funds produced a letter from Mr. Robert 
Burns, of date the sixth current, which 
was read, and appointed to be engrossed 
in their sederunt-book, andof whicii letter 
the tenor follows : '' To the Honourable 
Bailies of Canongate, Edinburgh. Gen- 
tlemen, I am sorry to be told, that the re- 
mains of Robert Fergusson, the so justly 
celebrated poet, a man whose talents, for 
ages to come, will do honour to our Ca- 
ledonian name, lie in your church-yard, 
among the ignoble dead, unnoticed and 
unknown. 

" Some memorial to direct the steps of 
the lovers of Scottish Song, when they 
wish to shed a tear, over the ' narrow 
house' of the bard who is no more, is 
surely a tribute due to Fergusson's me- 
mory ; a tribute I wish to have the ho- 
nour of paying. 

" I petition you, then, gentlemen, to 
permit me to lay a simple stone over his 
revered ashes, to remain an unalienable 
property to his dcatliless fame. I have 
the honour to be. Gentlemen, your very 
humble servant, {sic subscribitur,) 

" Robert Burns." 

Thereafter the said managers, in con- 
sideration of the laudable and disinterest- 
ed motion of Mr. Burns, and the propriety 
of his request, did and hereby do, unani- 
mously, grant power and liberty to the 
said Robert Burns to erect a headstone 
at the grave of the said Robert Fergus- 
son, and to keep up and preserve tha 
same to his memory in all time coming 
Extracted tbrth of the records of the ma 
nagers, by 

William Sprot, Clerk. 



No. XX. 

To 



MY DEAR SIR, 

You may think, and too justly, that 
I am a selfish, ungrateful fellow, having 



LETTERS. 



lOS 



received so many repeated instances of 
kindness from you, and yet never putting' 
pen to paper to say — thank you ; but if you 
knew wliat a devil of a life my conscience 
has led me on that account, your good 
heart would think yourself too much 
avenged. By the by, there is nothing in 
the whole frame of man which seems to 
me so unaccountable as that thing called 
conscience. Had the troublesome, yelp- 
ing cur powers efficient to prevent amis- 
chief, he might be of use ; but at the be- 
ginning of the business, his feeble efforts 
are to the workings of passion as the in- 
fant frosts of an autumnal morning to the 
unclouded fervour of the rising sun: and 
no sooner are the tunmltuous doings of 
the wicked deed over, than, amidst the 
bitter native consequences of folly in the 
very vortex of our horrors, up starts con- 
ecience, and harrows us with the feelings 
of the d*****. 

I have enclosed you, by way of expia- 
tion, some verse and prose, that if they 
merit a place in your truly entertaining 
miscellany, you are welcome to. The 
prose extract is literally as Mr. Sprot 
sent it me. 

The Inscription of, the stone is as follows : 

HERE LIES 

ROBERT FERGUSSON, POET, 

Born, September 5th, 1751— Died, 16th October, 1774. 

Noscwlptur'd Marble here, nor pompous lay, 
'• No storied urn nor animated bust ;" 

This simple stone directs pale Scotia's way 
To pour her sorrows o'er her Poet's dust. 

On the other side of the Stones as follows. ■ 

"By special grant of the Managers to 
Robert Burns, who erected this stone, 
this burial place is to remain for ever sa- 
cred to the memory of Robert Fergusson." 



No. XXI. 

Extract of a Letter from 



8th March, 1787. 

I AM truly happy to know that you 
have found a friend in ***** ; 
his patronage of you does him great ho- 
nour. He is truly a good man ; by far 
the best 1 ever knew, or, perhaps, ever 



shall know, in this world. But I must 
not speak all I think of him, lest 1 should 
be thought partial. 

So you have obtained liberty from tho 
magistrates to erect a stone over Fer- 
gusson's grave ? I do not doubt it ; such 
things have been, as Shakspeare says, 
" in the olden time :" 

" The poet's fate is here in emblem shown, 
He ask'd for bread, and he receiv'd a stone." 

It is, I believe, upon poor Butler's tomb 
that this is written. But how many bro- 
thers of Parnassus, as well as poor But- 
ler and poor Fergusson, have asked for 
bread, and been served the same sauce ! 

The magistrates gave ynu liherti/, did 
they? O generous magistrates! * * * * 
* * * celebrated over the three king- 
doms for his public spirit, gives a poor 
poet liberty to raise a tomb to a poor poet's 
memory ! most generous ! * * * * once 
upon a time gave that same poet the 
mighty sum of eighteen pence for a copy 
of his works. But then it must be con- 
sidered that the poet was at this time ab- 
solutely starving, and besought his aid 
with all the earnestness of hunger ; and 
over and above, he received a * * * * 
worth, at least one third of the value, in 
exchange, but which, I believe, the poet 
afterwards very ungratefully expunged. 

Next week T hope to have the pleasure 
of seeing you in Edinburgh ; and as my 
stay will be for eight or ten days, I wish 
you or * * * * would take a snug well- 
aired bed-room for me, where I may have 
the pleasure of seeing you over a morning 
cup of tea. But, by all accounts, it will be a 
matter of some difficulty to see you at all, 
unless your company is bespoke a week 
before-hand. There is a great rumour 
here concerning your great intimacy with 

the Dutchess of , and other ladies 

of distinction. I am really told that 
" cards to invite fly by thousands each 
night;" and, if you had one, I suppose 
there would also be " bribes to your old 
secretary." It seems you are resolved to 
make hay while the sun shines, and avoid, 
if possible, the fate of poor Fergusson, 
!C * ^f: * * Queer enda pecunin primum est, 
virtus post nummos, is a good maxim to 
thrive by ; you seemed to despise it while 
in this country ; but probably some phi- 
losopher in Edinburgh has taught you 
better sense. 



lOG 



LETTERS. 



Pray, arc you yet engraving us well as 
printing ? — Are you yet seized 

" With itch of picture in the front, 
With bays and wicked rhyme iipoii't'!" 

But I must give up this trifling, and at- 
tend to matters that more concern myself; 
eo, as tlie Aberdeen wit sa.ys, adieu di^yli/, 
we sal drink phan we meet.* 



NO. XXI. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Edinburgh, March 22, 1787. 

MADAM, 

I READ your letter with watery eyes. 
A little, very little wliilc ago, / had scarce 
a friend hut the sluhhorn pride of my own 
bonom ; now I am distinguished, patronis- 
ed, befriended by you. Your friendly ad- 
vices, I will not give them the cold name 
of criticisms, I receive with reverence. 
I liave made some small alterations in 
what I before iiad printed. I have the 
advice of some very judicious friends 
among the literati here, but with them I 
sometimes find it necessary to claim the 
privilege of thinking for myself. The 
noble Earl of Glcncairn, to whom I owe 
more than to any man, does me the ho- 
nour of giving me his strictures ; his 
hints, with respect to impropriety or in- 
delicacy, I follow hnplicitly. 

You kindly interest yourself in my fu- 
ture views and prospects : there I can 
give you no light : — it is all 

" Dark as was chaos, ere the infant sun 
Was roll'd together, or had try'd liis beams 
Athwart the f;lonin profound." 

The appellation of a Scottish bard is by 
far my highest pride ; to continue to de- 
serve it, is my most exalted ambition. 
Scottish scenes and Scottish story are 
the themes I could wish to sing. I have 
no dearer aim tlian to have it in my power, 
unplagued with the routine of business^ 

* The above extract is from a letter of one of the 
ablest of ourPoet's correspondents, wliich contains some 
interesting anecdotes of Fergusson, that we should have 
been happy to have inserted, if they could have been 
aiithenlicated. The writer is mistaken in supposing 
the magistrates of Kdiiiburgh had any share in the 
transaction respecting the monument erected for Fer- 
gusson by our bard ; this, it is evident, passed between 
Burns and the Kirk-Session of the Canongate. Neither 
at Edinburgh nor any where e\M, do magistrates usu- 
ally trouble themselves to inquire how the house of a 
i)oor pool is furnished, or huw hi:i grave is adorned. £. 



for which, heaven knows ! I am unfit 
enough, to make leisurely pilgrimages 
through Caledonia ; to sit on the fields 
of her battles ; to wander on tlie roman- 
tic banks of her rivers ; and to muse by 
the stately towers or venerable ruins, 
once the honoured abodes of her heroes. 

But these arc all Utopian thoughts : I 
have dallied long enough with life ; 'tis 
time to be in earnest. I liave a fond, an 
aged mother to care for ; and some other 
bosom ties perhaps equally tender. 

Where the individual only suffers by 
the consequences of his own thoughtless- 
ness, indolence, or folly, he may be ex- 
cusable ; nay, si)ining abilities, and somo 
of the nobler virtues may half-sanctify a 
heedless character : but where God and 
nature have intrusted the welfare of oth- 
ers to his care, where the trust is sacred 
and the ties are dear, that man must be 
far gone in selfishness, or strangely lost 
to reflection, whom these connexions will 
not rouse to exertion. 

I guess that I shall clear between two 
and three hundred pounds by my author- 
ship : with that sum I intend, so far as I 
may be said to have any intention, to re 
turn to my old acquaintance, the plough ; 
and if I can meet with a lease by which 
I can live, to commence farmer. I do not 
intend to give up poetry : being bred to 
labour secures me independence ; and the 
muses arc my chief, sometimes have been 
my only employment. If my practice 
second my resolution, T shall have princi- 
pally at heart the serious business of life ; 
but, while following my plough, or build- 
ing up my shocks, I shall cast a leisure 
glance to that dear, that only feature of 
my character, which gave me the notice 
of my country, and the patronage of a 
Wallace. 

Thus, honoured Madam, I liave give.l 
you the bard, his situation, and his views, 
native as they are in his own bosom. 



No. XXIII. 
TO THE SAME. 
Edinburgh, 15lh April, 1787 

MADAM, 

There is an afTectation of gratitude 
which I dislike. The periods of Johnson 



LETTERS. 



ib7 



and the pauses of Sterne, may hide a self- 
ish heart. For my part, Madam, I trust 
T have too much pride for servility, and 
too little prudence for selfishness. I have 
this moment broken open your letter but 

" Rude am 1 in spcpcli, 
And tlierefore liulc can I giace my causR 
In speaking for myself — 

so I shall not tfouble you with any fine 
speeches and hunted fig-ures. I shall just 
lay my' hand on my heart, and say, I hope 
] shall ever have the truest, the warmest, 
sense of your goodness. 

I come abroad in print for certain on 
Wednesday. Your orders I shall punc- 
tually attend to ; only, by the way, I 
must tell you that I was paid before for 
Dr. Moore's and Miss W.'s copies, through 
the medium of Commissioner Cochrane 
in this place ; but that we can settle when 
I have the honour of waiting on you. 

Dr. Smith* was just gone to London 
the morning before I received your letter 
to him. 



No. XXIV. 
TO DR. MOORE. 

Edinburgh, 23d April, 1787. 

I RECEIVED the books, and sent the one 
you mentioned to IMrs. Dunlop. I am ill- 
skilled in beating the coverts of imagina- 
tion for metaphors of gratitude. I thank 
you, Sir, for the honour you have done 
me ; and to my latest hour will warmly 
remember it. To be highly pleased with 
your book, is what I have in common 
with the world ; but to regard these vo- 
lumes as a mark of the author's friendly 
esteem, is a still more supreme gratifi- 
cation. 

I leave Edinburgh in the course of ten 
days or a fortnight ; and, after a few pil- 
grimages over some of the classic ground 
of Caledonia, Cowden ICnowes, Banks of 
Yarrow, Tweed, &;c. I shall return to 
my rural shades, in all likelihood never 
more to quit them. I have formed many 
intimacies and friendships here, but I am 
ufraid they are all of too tender a con- 
struction to bear carriage a hundred and 
fifty miles. To the rich, the great, the 

♦ Adam Smilli. 

U 2 



fashionable, the polite, I have no oquiva 
lent to ofier ; and I am afraid my meteoi 
appearance will by no means entitle me 
to a settled correspondence with any o 
you, wtio are the permanent lights of ge- 
nius and literature. 

My most respectful compliments to 
Miss W. If once this tangent flight o^ 
mine were over, and I were returned to my 
wonted leisurely motion in my old circle, 
I may probably endeavour to return her 
poetic compliment in kind. 



No. XXV. 

EXTRACT OF A LETTER TO 
MRS. DUNLOP. 

Edinburgh, 20th April, 1787. 

Your criticisms. Madam, I un- 
derstand very well, and could have wish- 
ed to have pleased you better. You are 
right in your guess that I am not very 
amenable to counsel. Poets, much my 
superiors, have so flattered those who 
possessed the adventitious qualities of 
wealth and power that I am determined 
to flatter no created being either m prose 
or verse. 

I set as little by princes, lords, clergy, 
critics, &c. as all these respective gentry 
do by my hardship. I know what 1 may 
expect from the world by and by — illiberal 
abuse, and perhaps contemptuous neglect. 

I am happy, Madam, that some of my 
own favourite pieces are distinguished 
by your particular approbation. For my 
Dream, whicli has unfortunately incurred 
your loyal displeasure, I hope in four 
weeks, or less, to have the honour of 
appearing at Dunlop, in its defence, in 
person. 



No. XXVL 
TO THE REV. DR. HUGH BLAIR. 

Lawn-Market, Edinburgh, 3d May, 1 787. 

REVEREND AND MUCH-RESPECTED SIR, 

I LEAVE Edinburgh to-morrow morn- 
ing, but could not go without troubling 
you with half a line sincerely to thank 



lOR 



LETTERS. 



j'ou for tlio kindness?, palronagfe, and 
friendsliip you liavo sliown mo. I often 
folt. tho cmbiirrassinont of my siii<]fular 
situation; drawn forth I'roin tlic veriest 
eliadcs of ftfi^ to tlu; f^daro of remark; and 
honoured by tiie notice of tiioso illustri- 
ous names of my country, whose works, 
while they are applauded to tlie end of 
time, will ever instruct and mend the 
h(?art. However the meteor-like novelty 
of my appearance in the world mijifht at- 
tract notice, and honour mo witii the ac- 
quaintance of the permanent lij^dits of 
fvenius and literature, those who are tru- 
ly benefactors of the imuiortal nature of 
man; I knew very well that my utmost 
merit was far unequal to tho task of pre-' 
sorvinji^ that character when once the 
novelty was over. I have made up my 
mind, that abuse, or almost even neirJcct, 
will not surprise me in my quarters. 

I liavo sent yon a proof impression of 
Beujjjo's work for me, done on Indian pa- 
per, as a trilling but sincere testimony 
with what heart-warm jrratitude I am,&c. 



No. XXVII. 
FROM DR. BLAIR. 

Argyle-Square, Edinburgh, 4th May. 

DEAR SIR, 

I WAS favoured this forenoon with 
your very oblic^ing letter, torrethor with 
an impression of your portrait, for which 
I return you my best thanks. The suc- 
cess you have met with I do not think 
was beyond your merits ; and if I have 
had any small hand in contributinjr to it, 
it gives me groat pleasure. I know no 
way in which literary persons, who are 
advanced in years, can do more service 
to the world, than in forwarding the ef- 
forts of rising genius, or bringing forth 
unknown merit from obscurity. I was 
the first person who brought out to the 
notice of the world, the poems of Ossian : 
first, by the Fra;:,-7nenl.<i <>f ./Inrient. Poetrij 
which I published, and afterwards by my 
setting on foot the undtM'taking for col- 
lecting and publishing the Works of Os- 
sian ; and I have always considered this 
as a meritorious action of my life. 

Your situation, as yon say, was indeed 
very singular; and, in being brought out 



all at once from the shades of deepest 
privacy, to so great a share of j)ublic no- 
tice and observation, you had to stand a se- 
vere trial. I am hajipy that you have stood 
it so well ; and, as far as 1 have known 
or heard, though in tho midst of many 
temptations, without reproach to your 
character and behaviour. 

You arc now, I presume, to retire to a 
more private walk of life; and, I trust, 
will conduct yourself there, with indus- 
try, prudence, and honour. You have 
laid the foundation for just public esteem. 
In the midst of those employments, which 
your situation will render proper, you will 
not, I liopo, neglect to promote that es- 
teem, by cultivating your genius, and at- 
tending to such productions of it as may 
raise your character still higher. At the 
same time, be not in too great a haste to 
come forward. Take time and leisure to 
improve and mature your talents; for on 
any second jiroduction you give the world, 
your fate, as a poet, will very much de- 
pend. There is, no doubt, a gloss of no- 
velty which time wears oft'. As you very 
properly hint yourself, you are not to be 
surprised, if, in your rural retreat, you do 
not find yourself surrounded with that 
glare of notice and applause which here 
shone upon you. No man can be a good 
poet, without being somewhat of a philo- 
sopher. He must lay his account, that 
any one, who exposes himself to public 
observation, will occasionally meet with 
the attacks of illiberal censure, which it 
is always best to overlook and despise. 
He will be inclined sometimes to court 
retreat, and to disappear from public 
view. He will not ail'ect to shine always, 
that ho may at proper seasons come forth 
with more advantage and energy. He 
will not think himself neglected, if he be 
not always jiraised. I have taken the 
liberty, you see, of an old man, to give 
advice and make reflections which your 
own good sense will, I dare say, render 
unnecessary. 

As you mention your being just about 
to leave town, you are going, I should 
suppose, to Dumfries-shire, to look at 
some of Mr. Miller's farms. I heartily 
wish the oilers to be made you there may 
answer, as I am persuaded you will not 
easily find a more generous and better- 
hearted proprietor to live under, than Mr. 
Miller. When you n^turn, if you come 
this way, I will be bapi)y to see you, and 
to know concerning vour future plans of 



LETTERS. 



109 



life 1 on will find mc by the 22(1 of this 
month, not in my liouse in Argyle-sijnare, 
but at a country-lioiisc at Restalrig, about 
a mile cast from Edinburo-li, near tlio 
Musselburgh road. Wishing yon all suc- 
cess and prosperity, I am, witli real re- 
gard and esteem, 

Dear Sir, 

Yours sincerely, 
HUGH BLAIR. 



No. XXVHL 
FROM DR. MOORE. 

Cliford-Slrcd, May, 23, 1787. 

DEAR SIR, 

I HAD the pleasure of your letter by 
JNIr. Creecli, and soon after he sent me 
the new edition of your poems. You seem 
to think it inciunbent on you to send to 
each subscriber a number of copies pro- 
portionate to his subscription-money; but 
you may depend upon it, few subscribers 
expect more tlian one copy, whatever they 
subscribed. 1 nuist inform you, however, 
that I took twelve copies for those sub- 
scribers for whose money you were so 
accurate as to send me a receipt; and 
Iiord Eglinton told mo ho had sent for 
Six copies for himself, aa he wished to 
give five of them as presents. 

Some of the poems you have added in 
this last edition are very beautiful, par- 
ticularly the VFintcr Jfifflit, the .fiddrrss 
to f2(linlnirs;h, Green o^row the Rnshe.t, 
and the two songs inmiediately following; 
the latter of which is exquisite. By the 
way, I imagine you have a peculiar talent 
for such compositions, which you ought 
to indulge.* No kind of poetry demands 
more delicacy or Iiigher polishing. Ho- 
race is more admired on account of his 
Odes than all his otiier writings. But no- 
thing now added is equal to your Vision, 
and Colter's Sdlurday Jfi^ht. In these 
are united fine imagery, natural and pa- 
thetic description, with sublimity of lan- 
guage and tliouglit. It is evident that 
you already possess a great variety of ex- 
pression and command of the English 
language, you ought, tlierefore to deal 
more sparingly for the future in the pro- 
vincial dialect : why should you, by using 

♦ TliR pooiiis siibscqtiontly coinpnsrd will liear testi- 
mony to tlid aixiirany of Dr. Moore's judgment. E. 



that, limit the ntimber of your admirers to 
those who understand tlie Scottish, when 
you can extend it to all persons of taste 
who understand the English language .'' 
In my opinion you should })lan some larger 
work than any you luive as yet attempt- 
ed. I mean, refiect upon some prope 
subject, and arrange tlie plan in your 
mind, without beginning to execute any 
part of it till you have studied most of the 
best English poets, and road a little more 
of history. The Greek and Roman sto- 
ries you can read in some abridgment, 
and soon become master of the most bril- 
liant fiicts, whicli must highly delight a 
poetical mind. You should also, and very 
soon maij, become master of tlie heathen 
mythology, to which there are everlasting 
allusions in all the poets, and wiiich in it- 
self is charmingly fanciful. Wliat will 
require to be studied with more attention, 
is modern history ; that is, the history of 
France and Great Britain, from the be- 
ginning of Henry the Seventh's reign. I 
know very well you have a mind capable 
of attaining knowledge by a sliorter pro- 
cess than is commonly used, and I am cer- 
tain you are capable of making a better 
use of it, when attained, than is general- 
ly done. 

I beg you will not give yourself the 
trouble of writing to me when it is incon- 
venient, and make no apology when you 
do write, for having postponed it ; be as- 
sured of this, however, that I shall always 
be happy to hear from you. I think my 

friend, Mr. told me that you had 

some jtoems in manuscript by you, of a 
satirical and humorous nature (in which, 
by the way, I think you very strong,) 
which your prudent friends prevailed on 
you to omit ; particularly one called Some- 
hod i/'s Confession ; if you will intrust me 
with a sight of any of these, I will pawn 
my word to give no copies, and will be 
obliged to you for a perusal of them. 

T imderstand yon intend to take a farm, 
and make the useful and respectable busi- 
ness of husbandry your chief occupation ; 
this, I hope, will not prevent your making 
occasional addresses to the nine ladies 
who have shown you such favour, one of 
whom visited you in the auld clay biggin. 
Virgil, before you, proved to the world, 
that there is nothing in the business of 
husbandry inimical to poetry ; and I sin 
cerely hope that you may afford an ex- 
ample of a good poet being a successful 
farmer. I fear it will not bo in my power 



110 



LETTERS. 



to visit Scotland this season ; when I do, 
I'll entloavoiir to find you out, for I hear- 
tily wish lu see and convorso with you. 
If ever your ocrasious call you to this 
plnco, I make no douht of your iKiyiii<;- mo 
a visit, and you may depend on a very 
cordial welcome from this family. 

I am, dear Sir, 

Your friend and obedient servant, 

J. MOORE. 



No. XXIX. 
TO MR. WALKER, 

BI.AIR OK ATUOI.K. 

Inverness, 5th Septcmher, 1787. 

MY OF- An SIR, 

I HAVE just tinio to write the foreo-o- 
injj;,* and to tell you that it was (at least 
most part of it,) the elVusion of a half- 
hour I spent at Bruar. I do not menu it 
was ci'hinporc. for 1 have endeavoured to 

brush it up as w ell us Mr. N 's chat, 

and the jojvirinj)- of tlie ehtiisc, would al- 
low. It eases my henrt a fjood deal, as 
rliyme is the coin with which a ])oet pays 
his debts of honour or gratitude. What 
I owe to the noble family of Athole, of 
the first kind, I shall ever proudly boast ; 
what 1 owe of the lust, so help me (lod in 
my hour of need ! I shnll never Ibrget. 

Tlie " little !in<Tid band !" I declare I 
prayed for tluMU very sincerely to-dny at 
the Fall of Fyers. I shall never foryet 
the Hue family-piece I saw at l?lair; th(> 
amiable, the truly noble Dutchess, with 
luM' smiliun litth! seraph in h(>r lap, at the 
head I >ft he table; the lovely "olive plants," 
as tiu> Hebrew bard tinely says, round 
the happy motiier ; the beautiful Mrs. 

G ; the lovely, sweet Miss C, &c. 

I wish I had the powers of Guide to do 
thiMU justice. My Lord Duke's kind hos- 
pitality — markedly kind indeed ! Mr. G. 
of F — 's charms of coiwersation — Sir W. 
M 's friendship. In short the recol- 
lection of nil that polite, aoreeable com- 
pany, raises an honest <j;low in my bosom. 

• The Imniblo tviilion of niuar Wuter to llio Diikc 
of Atliulc. See l'oMitii,p. ''2, 



No. XXX. 
TO MR. GILBERT BURNS. 

Edinburgh, Mth Sept. 1707. 

MY nr.AK BROTIIEn, 

I ARRivKi) here safe yesterday ever- 
inir, after a tour of twenty-two days, and 
travellino- near six lunidrcHl miles, wind- 
iiifvs included. My farthest stretch was 
about ten miles beyond Inverness. I went 
throiioli the heart of the Highlands, by 
Cried", Taymouth, the famous seat of the 
Lord Mreadalbane, down the Tay, among 
cascades and Druidical circles of stones, 
to Dunkeld, a seat of the Duke of Atliole; 
tluMice cross Tay, and up one of his tri- 
butary streams to Blair of Athole, ano- 
ther of the Duke's seats, where I had the 
hoimur of s|)emrm<j- nearly two days with 
his Grace and tlunily; thence many miles 
throu^'h a wild country, anionj:^ clilfs pray 
with et(M-nal snows, and fyiomny sava<j;c 
<j-!ens, till I crossed Spey and wont down 
the stn^anv throufjh Strathspey, so famous 
in Scottish nuisic, Badenoch, iVc. till I 
reachtMl Grant (^astle, where 1 sjKMit half 
a day with Sir Jnmes (Jrant and family ; 
and then crossed the country t()r Fort 
Geor{i"e, but called by the way at (^aw- 
dor, the anci(>nt seat of Macbeth; there 
I saw the identical bed in which, tradi- 
tion says, Kino; l^uncan was nuu'dercd; 
'ustly, from Fgrt Georg-e to Inverness. 

I returned by the coast, throufrh Nairn, 
Forres, and so on, to Aberdeen; thenco 
to Stonehive, where James Burness, from 
IMontrose, met me, by appointment. I 
spent two days amonc^ our relations, and 
liuuid our aunts, Jean and Isabel, still 
alive, and liale old women. John Caird, 
thoui>-h born the same year with our fa- 
ther, walks as vijjorously as I can; they 
have had several letters from his son in 
New-York. William Brand is likmviso 
a stout oM f^.'llow ; but further particulara 
I delay till I see you, which will be iti 
two or three weeks. The rest of my 
stapes are not wortK rehearsiutr; wnrni 
as I was from Ossian's country, wherp 
I had seen his very grave, what cared 1 
for fishiutr towns or fertile carses? 1 
slept at the famous Brodie of Brodie'a 
one night, and dined at (lordon Castle 
next day with flu> Duke, Dutchess, ana 
family. I am thinking to cause my olA 
mare to meet me, by means of Jidm Ro- 
nald, at Glasgow: but you shall hear tar 
ther from nu' bef\)re I leave I'^.dinburgli 
My duty, and many compliments, froro 



LETTERS. 



Ill 



the nortli, to my mothor, and my brotherly 
com])liinciils to tin; rowt. I have been 
tryiiiir lor n birtli lor Williiun, but ain not 
likoly to be bucccssIuI. — Furcwcll ! 



No. XXXI. 
FROM MR. R*****. 
Ochtertyre, T2d Odohcr, 1 787. 



SFR, 



'Twas only y<!st(!r(lay I pot Colonnl 
Pdniondsli, lino's iuihwi.t, lliat niMtbcr tlio 
words of 7>w()« t/ui Hum Davie, nor Dain- 
lie Davie, (I t'orifot wbicli you nicntioiiod,) 
wore written by (Jolonel (i. (Jrawl'ord. 
Next time 1 ineiit iiiin, I will inquire 
about his cousin's poetical talents. 

Enclosed are the inscriptions you re- 
quested, and a bitter to Mr. Yonnp;', whose 
company and nuisical talents will, I am 
persuaded, be a least to you.* Nobody 

* ThfiHfi Inscriptions, so much admired by liuriiii, arc 
ai fulluws: 

WRITTEN IN 17C8. 

FOR TIIF, SAMCTHM* AT OCIlTEnTVRK. 

Saliihrilntis voliiptatlHqiic cauna, 

Hoc Snllcliiiii, 

PaliirltMii iiliiii iiillilain, 

Mlhl iiii'Ihi|U() (Ii.'hIcco ct cxorno. 

llic, |>rocuI iK'KotiiN Htrcpilmiuu, 

Innocnis di'licli!) 

Bilviilnn inicr nascciilcH rcptaiidi, 

Apliiniquo Inl)()re8 HUHpiciLiidl, 

Friior. 

Ilic, 8i fnxlt DviiHopt. iimx. 

Prupc liiiric roiitcin pi'lliicidiim, 

Rum (|iuiduin jiivcntiilia aiiiico Hiipurtitite, 

Hu'pc coii(|iiioKcaiii, Hoiiux, 

ContciituB inodicls, ineoiiuo la-tui! 

Sill alilcr — 

ilCviqiK! paiiliiluiii Hii|)orHit, 

VoH BJIvulir, ct UMlIci, 

CiL'tcrni|ii(! nnidiiin, 

Valctc, diiKiiiu iuilaininl! 

ENdl.IHHK.n. 

To improve Ixith air and soli, 

I drain and dncurate lliis plantalioii of wIIIovvh, 

Wlilrli was laloly an iini)r<ifilal)l(; ni(ira.''s. 

Hi;ri', far from iioino and strife, 

I iove to wai)(i<>r, 

Now fondly nniiJuiiK lln' proKrcsa ofiny tr»'ns, 

Now HliidyiiiH Ihn Itcc, lis arlH and mnnnorM. 

lliTc, if it |ilcaH(!H Alinlulity Cod, 

May I ollcii rrHl in ilie cvi'ninv! of iifc, 

Ni'ar tliat iranHpaiciil finintain, 

Willi some Hiirvivinp filiiid of my yontli ; 

Ka/ic/itm— Grove of Willu\v:j. WillowRround. 



can give you better hints, as to your pre- 
sent i)lau than he. Receive also Oine- 
ron ("anieron, which seemed to make 
fiiicli a deep im])ression on your imnoina- 
tion, that 1 nm not without ii()|)es it will 
beget som(;thiiifr to didioht the public in 
due tim J : and, no doiilit, the cirtuiiiistan- 
ces of this little tale might be varii'd or 
extended, so as to make part of a pasto- 
ral coriKuIy. Age or wounds might have 
k(!pt Omeron at home, whilst his coiin- 
tryinen were in the lield. His station 
may be somewhat varied, without losing 
his simplicity and kindness. * * * ^ 
group of characters, male and female, con- 
necttid with the jilot, might be li)rmed 
from his family or some iKMghbouringone 
of rank. It is not itidispensahle that tho 
guest should bi; a man of high station; 
nor is the politi(-n.l cpiarrel in which ho 
is engaged, of much im])ortanc(!, nnlesa 
to call forth tin; exercise of generosity 
and hiitlifulness, grafted on jiatriarchal 
hospitality. To introduce state-allairs, 
would raise the style above comedy ; 
thoiigii a small spice of them would sea- 
son the converse of swains. Upon this 
head 1 cannot say more than to recom- 
mend tli(! study of the character of Eu- 
mieus in the Odyssey, which, in Mr. I'ope'a 
translation, is an exipiisite and invaluable 
drawing from nature, that would suit 
some of our country Elders of tho pre- 
sent day. 

There must be love in tho plot, and a 
happy discovery; and peaiM! and jiardon 
may be the reward of liospitality, and ho- 

Coiilcnted willi a competency, 

And iiappy witli my lot. | 

II vain llii'Hi.' Iiun]i)le wi.slicH, 1 

And \\U: drawH near n close, 

Ye trccH and friiiiidd, 

And wliali'ver cIhi! In dear, 

Farewell ! and ionj; may ye flourish 



AHOVF, Tllii noon Oir TlIK HOUSE. 

WRITTEN IN 1775. 

Milil nieiHiiiK! iitinam coating 

I'rope Taiclil mar(;in('m, 

Avilo in A(,'rllo, 

Dene viverc fuustcipie morl! 

KNOI.IflllKD. 

On the I)anl(r4 of ilie Teith, 

In tin: KMiall lint Hwci'i Inlierltance 

Of my fatlMMM, 

May I and mine live! In peace, 

And die in Joyful hope ! 

Thepfi IndcrlplionB, and the translalionii, are In thfl 
hand writing of Mr. Ramsuy. 



(12 



LETTERS. 



nest attachiTipnt to miscfuidcd principles. 
Wlion you Jiave once tlioujrlit of a plot, 
and broufrht tlio story into form, Doctor 
Blacklock, or Mr. II. Mackenzie, may be 
nscfiil in dividiiii^ it into acts and scenes; 
for in tliese matters one nnist pay some 
attontion to certain rules of the drama. 
Tlu'se you could afterwards fill up at your 
leisure. But, wliilst I presume to give a 
few W(dl-mcant liints, let me advise you 
to study the spirit of my namesake's dia- 
logue,'" which is natural without being 
low ; and, under the trammels of verse, is 
puch as country-people, in these situa- 
tions, Hpoak every day. You Jiavc only 
to bring down your strain a very little. A 
great plan, such as this, would concentre 
all your ideas, which facilitates tlie execu- 
tion, and makes it a part of one's pleasure. 

I approve of your plan of retiring from 
din and dissipation to a firm of very rno- 
d(;rat(! size, sufficient to find exercise for 
mind and body, but not so great as to ab- 
sorb b(!tl;er tilings. And if som(; intellec- 
tual pursuit be well chosen and steadily 
pursued, it will be more lucrative than 
most farms, in this age of rapid improve- 
ment. 

Upon this subject, as your well-wisher 
and admirer, permit mo to go a step fur- 
ther. Tjot tiiose bright talents which the 
Almighty h;is bestowed on you, be hence- 
forth employed to the noble purpose of 
supporting the cause of truth and virtue. 
An imagination so varied and forcible as 
yours, may do this in many different 
modes : nor is it necessary to be always 
serious, which you have to good purpose ; 
good morals may be reconnnended in a 
comedy, or even in a song, (ireat allow- 
ances are duo to the heat and inex]ieri- 
ence of youth ; — and few poets can boast, 
like Tliomson, of never having written a 
line, which, dying, they would wish to 
blot. In particuiur I wish you to keep 
clear of the thorny walks of satire, which 
makes a man a hundred enemies for one 
friend, and is doubly dangerous when one 
is supposed to extend tiie slips and weiik- 
nesses of individuals to their sect or par- 
ty. About modes of faith, serious and 
excellent men have always differed ; and 
there are certain curious questions, which 
may afford scojie to men of metaphysical 
Jieads, iiut seldom iniMid the heart or tem- 
per. Whilst these points are b(Wond hu- 
man ken, it is sullicient that all our sects 

• A luD ■'.luusiy, in the >;atl* Slicplicrd. E. 



concur in their views of morals, 
will forgive me for these hints. 



Yoi. 



Well ! what think you of good lady 
Clackmannan ?* It is a pity she is so 
deaf, and speaks so indistinctly. Her 
houso is a specimen of the mansions of 
our gentry of the last age, when hospi- 
tality and elevation of mind were conspi- 
cuous amidst plain fare and plain furni- 
ture. I slniU be glad to hear from you at 
times, if it were no more than to show 
tliat you take the effusions of an obscure 
man like me in good part. I beg my best 
respects to Dr. and Mrs. Blacklock.f 

And am. Sir, 
Your most obedient, humble servant, 
J. RAMSAY. 

♦ Mrs. Bruce of Clackmannan. E. 
tTALE OF OMERON CAMERON. 

In one of tlie wars betwixt tlie crown of Scotland 
iiiid till! Lords of the Isles, Alexander Stewart, Earl of 
Mar (a distincMislKnl character in the riCteenth centu- 
ry,) and Donald Stewart, Earl of Caithness, had the 
command of the royal army. They marched into 
I-ochaber, with a view of attacking a \wi\y of the 
M'DdiKilds, commanded by Donald Balloch, and posted 
upon an arm of the sea which intersects that country, 
riavinc timely intellii,'ence of their approach, the insur- 
gents (;ot off precipitately to the opposite shore in their 
curriifflis, or boats covered with skins. Tlie king's 
troops encamped in full security ; but the M'Donahla, 
returning ahuiit midnight, surprised them, killed tho 
Earl of Caithness, and destroyed or dispersed llie whole 
army. 

The Earl of Mar escaped in the d;irk, without any 
alteiulanls, and made for the more hilly part of the 
c<niiitry. In the course of his (light he came to the house 
of a poor man, whose nnme was Orncrou Cameron. 
The landlord vvelcomcd his guest with the utmost kind- 
ness ; hul, as there was no meat in the house, he told 
his wife he would directly kill JIai)ljidkar,*lo feed the 
stranger. " Kill our only cow !"said she, "our own and 
our little children's principal support 1" M(Me attentive, 
however, to the present call for hospitality than to the 
remonstrances of hi.' wife, or the future exigencies of 
his family, he killed the cow. The best and teuderest 
pans were immcdiaiely roasted before the fire, and 
plenty of innirich, or llighliiiid sonp, prepared to C(m- 
clude their meal. The whole family, and llieir guest 
ate heartily, and the evening was spent, as usual, in 
telling tales and singing songs beside a cheerful fire. 
Bed-time came ; Omeron brnslied tlie hearth, spread the 
cow-hide upcni it. and desired the stranger to lie down. 
The earl wrapped his plaid about him, and slept sound- 
ly on the hide, whilst the faniily betook tlicmselve.i to 
rest in a corner of the same rocnii. 

Next morning they had a pleiitinil breakfasf, and at 
his departure his guest asked Cameron, if he knev* 
winnu he had entertained 7 "Yon may probably," 
answered he, " bo one of the kin<:'s olficers ; but wli> 
ever you are, yon came heit in distress, and here It 

* Maol Odiiar, t. c.ihe brown, hunnnil cow, 



LETTERS. 



113 



No. XXXII. 
FROM MR. J. RAMSAY, 

TO THE 

REVEREND W. YOUNG, AT 
ERSKINE. 

Ochtertyre, 22(1 October, 1787. 

DEAR.SIR, 

Ai.i.ow mc to introduce Mr. Burns, 
whose poems, I daro say, have given you 
much pleasure. Upon a personal ac- 
quaintance, I doubt not, you will relish 
the man as much as his works, in whicli 
there is a rich vein of intellectual ore. 
He has heard some of our Highland //w- 
inaf^s or songs played, which delighted 
him so much that he has made words to 
one or two of them, which will render 
these more popular. As he has thought 
of being in your (puirter, I ain persuaded 
you will not think it labour lost to indulge 
l[ie poet of nature with a sample of those 
eweet, artless nieloriies, which only want 
to be married (in Milton's phrase) to con- 
ffenial words. I wish we could coq- 
]ure up the ghost of .loscph M'D. to in- 
fuse into our i)ar(l a portion of his enthu- 
siasm for those neglected airs, which do 
not suit the fastidious musicians of the 
present hour, liut if it be true that Co- 
was my duty to protfict you. To wliat my cottage af- 
foi(J<:(lyiiu was iiuist wolcome." " Your (jucat, lliuri," 
repliud tlir; other, " iH lli« ICarl uf Mar ; and if licrc^aftor 
you fall into any mislortune, fail not to come to the 
castle of Kildrnniniie.'' " My hlcssing be with you ! 
noble stranger," saiJ ()in<;ron ; " If 1 am ever in dis- 
Uii^s you shall soon see mo." 

The Royal army was soon after re- assembled, and 
the insurgents finding lliemselves unable to make head 
against il, dispersed. The IM'Donalda, however, got 
notice thai (Jnieron had been the Earl's host, and forced 
him to fly the country. He came with his wife and 
children to the galeof Kildrunimie castle, and re((uirod 
adniitiance with if confidence which hardly correspond- 
ed with his habii and appearance. The porter told him 
rudely, his lordship was at dinner, and nnisi not be dis- 
turbed, lie became ixiisy and importunate : at hist his 
name was announced. Upon hearing I hat it was Omeron 
Cameron, (he Karl stalled from Ms seat, and is said to 
have exi;lainied in a kind of poetical strinza, '■ I was a 
night hi his house, and lariMlniost pleniiliilly ; but naked 
of clothes was my bed. Onieron from Hrengacli is an 
excellent fi'llow." lie was introduced into the great 
hall, anil received with the welcmne he deserved. 
Upon hearing bow he had been treated, the Karl gave 
him a four nierk land near the castle; and U is said 
there are still a nnniher of (,'ameron8 descended of this 
lligliland Knmteua 



relli (whom I looked on as the Homer of 

music) is out of date, it is no proof of their 
taste ; — this, iiow(!ver, is going out of my 
province. You can show Mr. Jiurns the 
manner of singing the same JMinags ; 
and, if he can humour it in words, I do 
not despair of seeing one of them sung 
upon the stage, in the original style, 
round a napkin. 

I am very sorry we are likely to meet 
so seldom in this neighbourhood. It is one 
of the greatest drawbacks that attends 
obscurity, that one has so few opportu- 
nities of cultivating acquaintances at a 
distance. 1 hope, however, soniC time 
or other to have the pleasure of beating 
up your cpiarters at Erskinc, and of haul- 
ing you away to Paisley, &c. ; meanwhile 
I beg to be remembered to Messrs. Boog 
and Mylne. 

If Mr. B. goes by , give liim a bil- 
let on our friend Mr. Stuart, who, I pre- 
sume, does not dread the frowns of hia 
diocesan. 

I am, Dear Sir, 

Your most obedient, humble servant 
J. RAMSAY. 



No. XXXIII. 
FROM MR. RAMSAY 

TO DU. BLACKLOCK. 
Ochtertyre, October 27, 1787. 

DEAR SIR, 

I RECEIVED yours by Mr. Burns, and 
give you many thanks for giving me an 
opi)ortiinity of conver.-^ing with a man of 
his calibre. He will, 1 doubt not, let you 
know what passed between us on the sub- 
ject of my hints, to which I have made 
additions in a letter I sent him t'other 
day to your care. 



You may tell Mr. Burns, when you see 
him, that Colonid Edinondstoune told me 
t'other day, that his cousin. Colonel 
(loorgo Oawford, was no poet, but a 
great singer of songs; but that his eldest 
brother Robert (by a former marriage^ 
had a great turn that way, having writ 
ten the words of The Bunk ahoon Tra 
quair and Twced.iide. That the Mary to 



tl4 



LETTERS. 



whom it was addressed was Mary Stew- 
art, of the Castlemilk family, afterwards 
wife of Mr. John Relches. The Colonel 
never saw Robert Crawford, though he 
was at his burial fifty-five years ago. 
He was a pretty young man, and had 
lived long in France. Lady Ankerville 
is his niece, and may know more of his 
poetical vein. An epitaph-monger like 
me might moralize upon the vanity of 
life, and the vanity of those sweet effu- 
sions. But I have hardly room to offer 
my best compliments to Mrs. Blacklock, 
and am, 

Dear Doctor, 
Your most obedient, humble servant, 
J. RAMSAY. 



\ 

No. XXXIV. 

FROM MR. JOHN MURDOCH. 

London, 2Slh October, 1787. 

MY DEAR SIR, 

As my friend, Mr Brown i? going 
ftum this place to your neighbourhood, I 
embrace the opportunity of telling you 
chat I am yet alive, tolerably well, and al- 
ways in expectation of being better. By 
the much-valued letters before me, I see 
that it was my duty to have given you 
this intelligence about three years and 
nine months ago : and have nothing to al- 
lege as an excuse, but that we poor, busy, 
busthng bodies in London, are so much 
taken up with the various pursuits in 
which we are here engaged, that we sel- 
dom think of any person, creature, place, 
or thing that is absent. But this is not 
altogether the case with me ; for I often 
think of you, and Hornie and Russel, and 
an im fathomed depth, and lowan hrunstane, 
all in the same minute, although you and 
they are (as I suppose) at a considerable 
distance. I flatter myself, however, with 
the pleasing thought, that you and I shall 
meet some time or other either in Scot- 
land or England. If ever you come hither, 
you will have the sat isfiiction of seeing 
your poems relished by the Caledonians 
in London, full as much as they can be 
liy those of Edinburgh. We frequently 
repeat some of your verses in our Cale- 
donian society ; and you may believe, 
:hat I am not a little vain tliat I have had 
some share in cultivating such a gcnins. 
I was not absolntclv certain that you were 



the author, till a few days ago, when 
made a visit to Mrs. Hill, Dr. M'Comb'a 
eldest daughter, who lives in town, and 
who told me that she was informed of it 
by a letter from her sister in Edinburgh, 
with whom you had been in company 
when in that capital. 

Pray let me know if you have any in- 
tention of visiting this huge, overgrown 
metropolis? It would afford matter for a 
large poem. Hero you would have an op- 
portunity of indulging your vein in the 
study of mankind, perhaps to a greater 
degree than in any city upon the face of 
the globe ; for the inhabitants of London, 
as you know, are a collection of all na- 
tions, kindreds, and tongues, who make 
it, as it were, the centre of their com- 
merce. 



Present my respectful compliments to 
Mrs. Burns, to my dear friend Gilbert, 
and all the rest of her amiable children. 
May the Father of the universe bless you 
all with those principles and dispositions 
that the best of parents took such uncom- 
mon pains to instil into your minds from 
your earliest infancy ! May you live as 
he did ! if you do, you can never be un- 
happy. I feel myself grown serious all 
at once, and affected in a manner I can- 
not describe. I shall only add, that it is 
one of the greatest pleasures I promise 
myself before I die, that of seeing the 
family of a man whose memory I revere 
more than that of any person that ever 1 
was acquainted with. 

I am, my dear Friend, 
Yours sincerely, 

JOHN "MURDOCH. 



No. XXXV. 



FROM MR. 



Gordon Castle, 2\si Oct. 1787. 

SIR, 

If you were not sensible of your fault 
as well as of your loss in leaving tiiis place 
so suddenly, I should condemn you to 
starve upon cauJd kail for ae toxcmont 
at least ! and as for Dick Latinc,* your 
travelling companion, without banning 
him luV a' the cu -ses contained in your 



LETTERS. 



115 



letter (which he'll no value a hawhee,) I 
siiovikl give him nought but Slra'bogie 
castocks to chew for mix ouks, or ay until 
he was as sensible of his error as you seem 
lO be of yours. 



Your song I showed without producing 
the author; and it was judged by the 
Dutchess to be the production of Dr. 
Beattie. I sent a copy of it, by her Grace's 
desire, to a Mrs. M'Pherson in Badenoch, 
wlio sings Moras;' and all other Gaelic 
songs in great perfection. I have record- 
ed it likev.'ise, by Lady Charlotte's de- 
sire, in a book belonging to her ladyship, 
where it is in company with a great ma- 
ny other poems and verses, some of the 
writers of which are no less eminent for 
tlieir political than for their poetical abili- 
ties. When the Dutchess was informed 
that j'ou were the author, she wished you 
had written the verses in Scotch. 

Any letter directed to me here will 
come to hand safely, and, if sent under 
the Duke's cover, it will likewise come 
free ; that is, as long as the Duke is in 
this country. 

I am, Sir, yours sincerely. 



No. XXXVL 

FROM THE 

REVEREND JOHN SKINNER. 
Linsheart, \4th Jfovember, 1787. 

SIR, 

Your kind return without date, but 
of post mark October 25th, came to my 
hand only this day ; and, to testify my 
punctuality to my poetic engagement, I 
sit down immediately to answer it in kind. 
Your acknowledgment of my poor but just 
encomiums on your surprising genius, and 
your opinion of my rhyming excursions, 
are both, I think, by far too high. The 
difference between our two tracks of edu- 
cation and ways of life is entirely in your 
favour, and gives you the preference eve- 
ry manner of way. I know a classical 
education will not create a versifying 
taste, but it mightily improves and assists 
it ; and tliough, where both these meet, 
there mny sometimes be giound for ap- 
nrobation, yet where taste appears single 
W 



as it were, and neither cramped nor sup- 
ported by acquisition, 1 will always sua 
tain the justice of its prior claim of ap< 
plause. A small portion of taste, ihis 
way, I have had almost from childhood, 
especially in tlie old Scottish dialect ; and it 
is as old a thing as I remember, my fondness 
for Christ-kirk o' the Green, which I had by 
heart, ere I was twelve years of age, and 
which, some years ago, I attempted to 
turn into Latin verse. While I was young, 
I dabbled a good deal in these things ; but, 
on getting the black gown, I gave it pret- 
ty much over, till my daughters grew up, 
who, being all good singers, plagued me 
for words to some of their favourite tunes, 
and so extorted these effusions, which 
have made a public appearance beyond my 
expectations, and contrary to my inten 
tions, at the same time that I hope there 
is nothing to be found in them uncharac 
teristic, or unbecom.ing the cloth which i 
would always wish to see respected. 

As to the assistance you purpose from 
me in the undertaking you are engaged 
in,* I am sorry I cannot give it so fV.r as 
I could wish, and you perhaps P7.poct. 
My daughters, who were my only intelli- 
gencers, are all fnris-familiate and tha 
old woman their mother has lost that 
taste. There are two from mi own pen, 
which T might give you, if worth the 
while. One to the old Sco'ch tune of 
Dumbarton's Drums. 

The other perhaps you have met with, 
as your noble friend the Dutchess has, I 
am told, heard of it. It was squeezed out 
of me by a brother parson in her neigh- 
bourhood, to accommodate a new High- 
land reel for the Marquis's birth-day, to 
the stanza of 

" Tune your fiddles, tune them sweetly," &c. 

If this last answer your purpose, you 
may have it from a brother of mine, Mr. 
James Skinner, writer in Edinburgh, who, 
I believe, can give the music too. 

There is another humorous thing I have 
heard, said to be done by the Catholic 
priest Geddes, and which hit my taste 
much : 

" '['here wfis a wee wifeikie, was coming frae the fair, 
Had {;oiten a little drapikie wliich bred her meiklecaro, 
It took upo' the wifie's heart, and she bejian to spew, 
And CO' the wee wifeikie, I wish I hinna fmi, 

/ wish-i Sec- >S-f. 

* A plan of p\ibiishing a complete collection of Scot 
tish Songs, &c 



no 



LETTERS. 



I liav^ hoard of niiotlior nmv composi- 
tion, by a yoniiLf |)liiii<;liiimn of my ao 
quaiiit.aiico, thill I .1111 vnstly itlcas(Ml witli, 
to tlio tunc of 'I'lw Humours <>/' (•A/i, 
wliicli 1 I't'ar wont, do, as tlio music, I nni 
told, is of Irisli oriirinal. 1 havo mont ion- 
ed those, sucli as tlioy nro, to sliovv my 
readii\oss to obli<jo you, and to contribute 
my mito, if I ooulil, to the patriotic work 
you have in iiand, and which I wisli all 
success to. Vou have only to notify your 
mind, and what you want of the above 
bIuiI! bo sent you. 

Mean time, while you are thus publicly, 
I may say, ouiployod, do not slioath your 
own proper and piercin^j^ weapon. From 
wlutt 1 have seen of yours already, I am 
inciiniMl to hope for much j^ood. One 
lesson of virt\ie and morality delivered in 
yotir amusinjr styl(N and from sucli as you, 
will operat(> more thai\ dozens would do 
from such as me, who shall he told it is 
our emi)loyment, and be n(>ver more mind- 
ed : whereas, from a ptMi like yours, as 
beinjr one of the many, what comes will 
be admired. Admiration will produce re- 
{jard, and reijard will leave an impression, 
especially wlun cxamjilc i^-oci along. 

Now liliiim siiyiii;; I'm ill Im'il, 
)',!>!(•, by my liotli, I'll not lu- hIikI, 
For caditi'i.s, yo Imvo lioiud it Miid, 

Anil sic like Try, 
Mliiiti ny l)c liarliinil in their tinik', 

And s»c niiiun I. 

WisliiufT you, from my poet-pen, all 
success, and, in my otIuM' ciiaracter, all 
]iappin(^ss and heavenly direction, 
I remain, with esteem, 

Your sincere friend, 
JOHN SKINNER. 



No. XXXVIT. 
FROM MRS. ROSE. 

Kilravock CasUc, ^iOlh ^''(W. 1787. 

sin, 

I iiori" you will do me the justice to 
believe, that it was no det'ect in gfratitude 
for your punctual performance of your 
part mij promis(\ that has made me so lono- 
in ackuinvltvljrini^ it, but morel v tho dilli- 
culty 1 had in {Toltiup the Iliijhlau<l souses 
you wished to iiave, accurately noted: 
they are at last enclosed: but how shall I 



convey along with them those graces they 
acquired front the melodious voice of ono 
of tite fair s])iiils of the Hill of Kildrutn- 
mie ! These I ttiust IcMive to your itnagi- 
nation to stipply. it has i)owerssiiHicient 
to trans])ort you to her side, to recall her 
accents, aitd to make them still vibrate in 
th(! ears of nunnery. To her 1 am in- 
debted for getting tho enclosed notes. 
Tiiey are clothtMl with ^'■thoughts tiiat 
breatiie, and uumls that burn." ThcsCf 
liowtwer, beinnr in an itnhnoimi tonjjuc to 
you, you must ai^^aiu have recourse to that 
same tertilt; ima<i;'inaliou of yours to inter- 
prtM t hout, and sup]M)so a lover's description 
of tii(> beaut i(\s of an adored mistress- 
Why did 1 say tmknown ? the latifrua;jc 
of love is a universal one, that seems to 
have escaped the confusion of Babol, and 
to be understood by all nations. 

• I rejoice to find that you wore pleased 
with so many things, persons, and places, 
in your northern tour, because it leads! 
me to lio|)o you maybe induced to revisit 
them again. That tlit- old castle of Kil- 
ravock, and its inhabitants were amongst 
these, adds to my satisla(;tion. 1 am even 
vain enough to admit your very Haltering 
applii'ation of the line of Aildison's ; at 
any rate, allow me to believe, that "friend- 
shi|) will maintain the ground she has 
occupied in both our Itearts," in s])ite of 
abs(mc(>, and that when wc do meet, it 
will be as aociuaintaiicc of a score years' 
standing; aiul on this footing consider 
1110 as interested in the future course of 
your fame so s]>lendidly comuKMiced. Any 
communications of tln^ progress of your 
muse will be r(>ceivtMl with great grati- 
tude, and the fire of your genius will havo 
power to warm even us, Irozen sisters of 
the north. 

The fire-sides of Kilravock and Kil- 
drtinuuio nititt^ in cordial regards to 
you. When you incline to figure either 
in your idea, suiijiose some of us reading 
your poems, and some of us siuiifing your 
songs, and my little Hugh looking at yotir 
pictiM-e,and you'll seldom be wrong. We 
remember Mr. Nicol with as much good 
will as we can do any body who hurried 
Mr. Burns from us. 

Farewell, Sir: I can only conlributt? 
the icidoir's 7)i//r, to the t>st(MMU and admi 
ratimi excited by your merits and gmiius; 
but this I give, as she did, with all my 
heart — being sincerely yours. 

EL. .ROSE. 



LETTERS. 



117 



No. XWVUI. 
T«.) THK KARL OF CLKNCAlllN. 

Mv i.niii), 

I KNOW your Tiordslili) will diKiijiprovc! 
of my i(l(!tiH in a r(M|ii('sl. 1 inn fjoiiifr to 
nmko to yon, l)ut, I liavn wi'i^ln'd, lonrr 
and KcirioiiKJy wcipliod, my Kiliiiilioii, iny 
/lopcH,. and turn of mind, and iiin i'nlly fix- 
ed to my sclicnm, if I cnn possiMy cnrc- 
tnato it. I wi«li to ^ot into tlio Kxcino ; 
I am told tliat yonr Jiordnliip's intercut 
will easily procure; me tin; f:jrant from tli<; 
ConimisriioncrH ; and your liordnliip's jiii- 
troiijipc; and ^oodncHH, vvliicli lui vr alr<'!i(!y 
rt;Hcu(;<l me from oliscurity, vvri'tclicdnoHs, 
and uxilo, (;nd)ol(l<'u nn; to mhIc tlint intor- 
cst. You luivo lik(;wiH(; ])ul it in my 
pow(;r (o Have tho little; tic; of luDiir that 
8li(;ltcrod a,ri iifjfod motln;r, two lirotlicrH, 
and tliri;(;sirit<;rH,lVom dost ruction, 'i'liorc;, 
my fiord, you liavo bound mo over to tiio 
JiioJK-Ht {^ralitudt;. 

My Ijfotlicr'H farm ir but a wrctrbnd 
loaso ; but I tliiidt In; will |>robal)ly wca- 
tlirr out tli<; r(;mainin<r Hovcn yearn of it; 
nnd, after tin; assislanco wbicij I have 
jriven, and will {five liim, to keep tin; fa- 
mily tofretlier, I tliink, iiy my jrueHH, I 
Hliall liav»; rather better than two hmi- 
dred j)oimds, n.nd instead of Hf;ekinir what 
is iilmowt im])osHibIe at pre;ieiit l,o llnd, ii. 
farm that I (;iin rertniuly live by, witJi ho 
Pmall a Hlo(;k, I hIuiII lodjifc; this huiu in a 
barikinjr-house, a Ha(;r(;<l deposit, ex(;ept- 
ingonly tin; rallK of uncommon distruHH 
or nccoKsitouH old af^e ; * * i< * 

These, My Tjord, are my views; T have 
roHolv<;d from the maturest d(;lib(;rati'>n ; 
and now 1 am lixod, I shall leiive nostonr; 
unturned to carry my r(;solve into execu- 
tion. Your liordship's patroniifro is the 
etrenptli of my hopf;s ; nor Imve I yet ap- 
plied to any Ixxly (dse. Indet^d my heart 
sinks within uw at tin; id(;a of ft|iplyiu(r to 
any otli(;r of th(; (ireatwho have honour- 
ed inc; with t,h(;ir countenance. 1 urn ill 
qualified to dojr tin; heels of preatness 
with tli(; impf;rtin(;nce of sidicitalion, and 
tremble nearly as nuich at the thought of 
the cold promise, as the cf)ld di;niM] : but 
to your fiordKliip \ have not only the 
nonour, the riinifort, but the pleasure of 
beiiijj 

Yo'ir Tjordidiip's m\irb oblipr-d, 

An.l d(;e^-ly iidi;btc(J humble scrvunt. 



'VO 



No. XXXIX. 
-DALRYMI'MO, Esq. 



Ol'" »)llAN(;i',l'l|-.l.l). 



Edinburgh, 17fl7 

nEAR HIR, 

I Htii'i'osi; tin; il(;vil is so (;Iiit(Ml with 
his siu'tM'HS with yon, that be is det(;rmin- 
(;d, by a v<>ui> de vin.'ni, to comi)lete hia 
purposes on you all at onc(;, in making 
you a po(;t. I brok<; open the l(;tter you 
sent m<; : innmned ovf:r th(; rliym(;H ; and 
as I saw they W(;re extempore, c.aid to 
myself, they W(;re very widl ; but when I 
Hiiw at the; bottom a, luiine I shall (;vcr 
vnlue with frraltiiul reHjiec^t, " I {'ajtit wido 
but naethiufT spak." I was nearly as 
UMirh HtTUck iiH the friends of .lob, of af- 
Hiction-beariufT memory, whi;n they sat 
down with him neven days and Bcvcn 
niyhta, and spake; not a word. 



T am natm-ally of a Hup{;rHtitioii3 cast, 
and as soon as my womler-sriared inuigi- 
n.ilion re/;fain(;(l its conscionsness, anil 
resumed its functions, 1 <'ast about what' 
this mania of yours mipht |)ortend. My 
f()r<;l)odinf^ i<leas had tin; widi; stretcli of 
poHsibility ; and s(;veral (;v(!nt,s, ^rciiit in 
their m!i<,fuitud(;, and important in their 
conse(pienf:eH, o(;curr(jd to my limey. 
The downfall of the comdavr;, r)r tho 
crusliinp of the cork rumps; a ducal co- 
ronet to iiord (l(;orjre (« , and tho 

protestiint interest, or St. Peter's keya, 
Jo * * * * 

You want to know bow I cnmo on. I 
am just in sUiln, r/wo, or, not to insult a 
pentlenuui with my liiitin, in " aiild use 
and wont." 'J'he noble J'larl of (»l(;iicairn 
took me by the hiind to-day, and interest 
ed hiiuseli' in my coiu'(;rns, with a |,'oo<l- 
nesH like that ben(;voIent lb;iuf>' vvIioho 
innipe Ik; ho richly bears, lie is a stron- 
\ri'.v i)roof of tin; nuuiortality cd" the kouI 
thiin any that philosophy (;ver produced. 
A mlud lik(; his can nev(;r die. Let tho 
worshipful scpiirc; IL Ji. or the reveren/1 
Mass .1. M. fro into tli(;ir j)rimitiv(; no- 
thiuff. .At b(;st, they iirc; but ill-di(.reHtc(l 
lum|)s of chaos, only mn; of thf;m strouffly 
tiufjed with bitiMuinouH particli;s and huI- 
phureouH ellluvia. ]Jut my nobh; patron, 
eternal as the heroic swell of mii;rnani- 
mity, uiai the fjeneroud throb of beiiovo- 



118 



LETTERS. 



lencc, shall look on with princely eye at 
"tlie war of elements, the wreck of mat- 
ter, and the crush of worlds." 



No. XL. 
TO SIR JOHN WHITEFOORD. 

December, 1787. 

SIR, 

Mr. M'Kenzie, in Mauchline, my 
very warm and worthy friend, lias inform- 
ed me how mnch you are pleased to in- 
terest yourself in my fate as a man, and 
(what to me is incomparably dearer) my 
fame as a poet. I have, Sir, in one or 
two instances, been patronised by those 
of your character in life, when I was in- 
troduced to their notice by ****'* * 
friends to them, and honoured acquain- 
tance to me; but you are the first gentle- 
man in the country whose benevolence 
and goodness of heart have interested 
him for me, unsolicited and unknown. I 
am not master enough of the etiquette 
of these matters to know, nor did I stay 
to inquire, whether formal duty bade, or 
cold propriety disallowed, my thanking 
you in this manner, as I am convinced, 
from the light in which you kindly view 
me, that you will do me the justice to be- 
lieve this letter is not the niancpuvre of 
the needy, sharping author, fastening on 
those in upper life who honour him with 
a little notice of him or his works. Indeed, 
the situation of poets is generally such, to 
a proverb, as may, in some measure, palli- 
ate that prostitution of art and talents 
they have at times been guilty of. I do 
not think prodigality is, by any means, a 
necessary concomitant of a poetic turn ; 
but I believe a careless, indolent inatten- 
tion to economy, is almost inseparable 
from it ; then there must be, in the heart 
of every bard of Nature's making, a cer- 
tain modest sensibility, mixed with a kind 
of pride, that will ever keep him out of 
the way of those windfalls of fortune, 
which frequently light on hardy impu- 
dence and footiicking servility. It is not 
easy to imngine a more helpless state than 
his, whose poetic fancy unfits him for the 
world, and whose character as a scholar 
gives him some pretensions to the poli- 
tesse of life — yet is as poor as I am. 

For my part, I thank Heaven my star 
has been kinder; learning never elevated 
my ideas above tne peasant's shade, and 



I have an independent fortune at the 
plo>]gh-tail. 

I was surprised to hear that any one 
who pretended in the least to the wi«nnfr« 
of the gentleman, should be so foolish, or 
worse, as to stoop to traduce the morals of 
such a one as I am ; and so inhumanly 
cruel, too, as to meddle with that lato 
most unfortunate, unha])py part of my 
story. With a tear of gratitude, I thank 
you. Sir, for the warmth with which you 
interposed in behalf of my conduct. I 
am, I acknowledge, too frequently the 
sport of whim, caprice, and passion — but 
reverence to Gon, and integrity to my fel- 
low creatures, I hope I shall ever preserve. 
I have no return. Sir, to make you for 
your goodness, but one — a return which, 
I am persuaded will not be unacceptable 
— the honest, warm wishes of a grateful 
heart for your happiness, and every one 
of that lovely flock who stand to you in a 
filial relation. If ever Calumny aim the 
poisoned shaft at them, may friendship be 
by to ward the blow ! 



No. XLI ' 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Edinburgh, 2\st January, 1788. 

After six weeks' confinement, I am 
begining to walk across the room. They 
have been six horrible weeks, anguish 
and low spirits made me unfit to read, 
write, or think. 

I have a hundred times wished that 
one could resign life as an officer resigns 
a commission ; for I would not take in any 
poor, ignorant wretch, by selling out. 
I/ately I was a sixpenny private, and, 
God knows, a miserable soldier enough: 
now I march to the campaign, a starv- 
ing cadet ; a little more conspicuously 
wretched. 

I am ashamed of all this; for though I 
do want bravery for the warfare of life, 
I could wish, like some other soldiers, to 
have as much fortitude or cunning as to 
dissemble or conceal my cowardice. 

As soon as I can bear the journey, 
which will be, I suppose, about the mid- 
dle of next week, I leave Edinburgh, and 
soon after I shall pay my grateful dutyol 
Dunlop-House. 



LETTERS. 



110 



No. XLII. 



EXTRACT OF A LETTER 

TO THE SAME. 

Edinburgh, \2lh February, 1788. 
Some thing:s in your late letters hurt 
mc : not that you say them, hut tfiat you 
mistake me. Religion, my honoured Ma- 
dam, has not only been all my life my 
chief dependence, hut my dearest enjoy- 
ment. I have indeed been the luckless 
victim of wayward follies: but, alas; I 
have ever been " more fool than knave." 
A mathematician without religion is a 
probable character ; and an irreligious 
poet is a monster. 



No. XLIII. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Mossgiel, 1th March, 1788. 

MADAM, 

The last paragraph in yours of the 
30th February affected me most, so I shall 
begin my answer where you ended your 
letter. That I am often a sinner with 
any littla wit I have, I do confess : but I 
have taxed my recollection to no purpose 
to find out when it was employed against 
you. I hate an ungenerous sarcasm a 
great deal worse than I do the devil ; at 
least, as Milton describes him ; and though 
I may be rascally enough to be sometimes 
guilty of it myself, I cannot endure it in 
others. You, my honoured friend, who 
cannot appear in any light but you are 
sure of being respectable — you can afford 
to pass by an occasion to display your wit, 
because you may depend for fame on your 
sense; or, if you choose to be silent, you 
know you can rely on the gratitude of 
many and the esteem of all ; but, God 
help us who are wits or witlings by pro- 
fession, if we stand not for fame there, 
we sink unsupported ! 

I am highly flattered by the news you 
tell me of Coila.* I may say to the fair 
painter who docs me so much honour, as 
Dr. Beattie says to Ross the poet of his 
muse Scota, from which, by the by, I took 
the ideaof Coila : ('Tis a poemof Beattie's 
in the Scots dialect, which perhaps you 
have never seen.) 

*A lady (daughter of Mrs. Dunlop) was mnldng a 
picxuie from the description of Coila in the Vision. E. 



" Ye shak your head, buto' my fegs, 
Yu'vr set auld Scota on her legs : 
Lang had she Uen wi' bufle and flags, 

}i(m\haz.'d and dizzic, 
Ilcr fiddle wanted strings and pegs, 

Wacs me, poor hizzie!" 



No. XLIV. 
TO MR. ROBERT CLEGIIORN 

J\Iauchline, '2>\st March, 17d8. 
Yesterday, my dear Sir, as I was 
riding through a track of melancholy, joy- 
less muirs, between Galloway and Ayr- 
shire, it being Sunday, I turned my 
thoughts to psalms, and hymns, and spiri- 
tual songs : and your favourite air Captain 
Okean, coming at length in my head, I 
tried these words to it. You will see 
that the first part of the tune must be re- 
peated.* 

I am tolerably pleased with these verses ; 
but, as I have only a sketch of the tune, 
I leave it with you to try if they suit the 
measure of the music. 

T am so harassed with care and anxiety 
about this farming project of mine, that 
my muse has degenerated into the veriest 
prose-wench that ever picked cinders or 
followed a tinker. When I am fairly got 
into the routine of business, I shall trou- 
ble you with a longer epistle ; perhaps 
with some queries respecting farming ; at 
present the world sits such a load on my 
mind, that it has effaced almost every 
trace of the in me. 

My very best compliments and good 
wishes to Mrs. Cleghorn. 



No. XLV. 
FROM MR. ROBERT CLEGHORN 

Saughton Mills, 27th April, 1788. 

MY DEAR BROTHER FARMER, 

I WAS favoured with your very kind 
letter of the 31 st ult., and consider myself 
greatly obliged to you for your attention 
in sending me the songf to my favourite 
air, Captain Okean. The words dehght 

• Here the Bard gives the first stanzu of the " Cheva 
licr's Lament." 
t The Chevalier's Lanmiii 



►'20 



LETTERS. 



me much, they fit the tune to a liair. I 
vish you would sciul nie a verse or two 
more :' and if you have no objection, 1 
would have it in the Jacobite style. Sup- 
pose it should be sung after the fatal field 
of Culloden by the unfortunate Charles. 
Tenducci personates the lovely Mary 
Stuart in the song, Qur.cn J\Iari/s La- 
mentalion. Why may not I sing in the 
person of her great-great-great-grand- 
son ?* 

Any skill I have in country business 
vou may truly command. Situation, soil, 
customs of countries, may vary from each 
other, bat Farmer Attention is a good far- 
mer in every place. I beg to hear from 
you soon. Mrs. Cleghorn joins me in 
best compliments. 

T am, in the most comprehensive sense 
of the word, your very sincere friend, 

ROBERT CLEGHORN. 



No. XLVL 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 
Mauchline, 28th April, 1788. 

MADAM, 

Your powers of reprehension must 
be great indeed, as I assure you they 
made my heart ache with penitential pangs, 
even though I was really not guilty. As 
I commence farmer at Whitsunday, you 
will easily gncss I must he pretty busy ! 
but that is not all. As I got the otfor of 
the excise-business without solicitation ; 
as it costs me only six months' attendance 
for instructions to entitle me to a com- 
mission, which commission lies by me, 
and at any future period, on my simple 
petition, can bo resumed : I thought five- 
and-thirty pounds a-year was no bad der- 
nier resort for a poor poet, if fortune, in 
her jade tricks, should kick him down 
from the little eminence to which she has 
lately helped him uo. 

For this reason, I am at present attend- 
ing these mstructions, to have them com- 
pleted before Whitsunday. Still, Madam, 
I prepared, with the sincercst pleasure, 
to meet yon at the Mount, and came to 
my brother's on Saturday night, to set 

• Our Poet took this nd vice. The whole ot'this benu- 
tiful sone, as it was afterwards fiiiislied, ii inserted in 
the Poeui^ ». 79. i 



out on Sunday ; but for some nights pre- 
ceding, I had slept in an apartment where 
the force of the winds and rains was only 
mitigated by being sifted through num- 
berless apertures in the windows, walls, 
&c. In consequence, I was on Stmday 
Monday, and part of Tuesday, unable to 
stir out of bed, with all the miserable ef- 
fects of a violent cold. 

You see, Madam, the truth of the French 
maxim Le vrai n^cut pas toujour s le vrai- 
scmblahlc. Your last was so full of ex- 
postulation, and was something so like the 
language of an offended friend, that I be- 
gan to tremble for a correspondence which 
I had with grateful pleasure set down as 
one of the greatest enjoyments of my fu- 
ture life. 



Your books have delighted me : Virgil, 
Drydcn, and Tasso, were all equally stran- 
gers to me : but of this more at large in 
my next. 



NO. XLVn. 
FROM THE REV. JOHN SKINNER 
Linsheart, 28f/i April, 1788. 

DEAR SIR, 

I KECEiVF.n your last with the curious 
present you have favoured me with, and 
would have made proper acknowledgments 
before now, but that I have been neces- 
sarily engaged in matters of a dilferent 
complexion. And now, that I have got 
a little respite, I make use of it to thank 
you for this valuable instance of your good- 
will, and to assure you that, with the sin- 
cere licart of a true Scotsman, I highly 
esteem both the gift and the giver ; as a 
small testimony of which I have herewith 
sent you for your amusement (and in a 
form which I hope you will excuse for sa- 
ving postage) the two songs I wrote about 
to you already. Charming' J^ancy is the 
real production of genius m a ploughman 
of twenty years of age at the time of its 
appearing, with no more education than 
what he picked up at an old farmer-grand- 
father's fire-side, though now by the 
strength of natural parts, he is clerk to a 
thriving bleach-field in the neighbour- 
hood. And I doubt not but you will find 
in it a simplicity and delicacy, with some 
turns of humour, that will please one of 



LETTERS. 



12,1 



your taste ; at least it plcaseJ me when I I You will oblige me by presenting my 
first saw it, if that can be any recommen- j respects to your host, Mr. Cruickshank, 



dation to it. The other is entirely de 
scriptive of my own sentiments : and you 
may make use of one or both as you shall 
see good.* 

* CHARMING NANCY. 

& SONG BY A BUCUAN PLOUGHMAN 

Tune — " Humours of Glen." 

Soini? sins of sweet Mally, some sing of fair Nrlly, 

And some call sweet Susie the cause of tlieir pain ; 
Some love to be jolly, some love melauclioly, 

And some love to sing of the Humours of Glen. 
But my only fancy is my pretty Nancy, 

In venting my passion I'll strive to be plain; 
I'll ask no more treasure, I'll seek no more pleasure, 

But thee, my dear Nancy, gin tliou wert my ain. 

Her beauty delights me, her kindness invites me, 

Her pleasant behaviour is free from all slain. 
Therefore, my sweet jewel, O do not prove cruel ; 

Consent, my dear Nancy, and come, be my ain. 
Iler carriage is comely, her language is homely, 

Her dtess is quite decent when ta'en in the main ; 
She's blooming in feature, she's handsome in stature, 

My charming dear Nancy, O wert thou my ain ! 

Like Phoebus adorning the fair ruddy morning, 

Her bright eyes are sparkling, her brows arc serene, 
Jler yellow locks shining, in beauty combining, 

My charming sweet Nancy, wilt thou be my aint 
The whole of her face is with maidenly graces 

Array'd like the gowans that grow in yon glen ; 
She's well shap'd and slender, true- hearted and tender, 

My charming sweet Nancy, O wert tliou my ain ! 

I'll seek tliro' the nation for some habitation, 

To shelter my jewel from cold, snow, and rain, 
With songs to my deary, I'll keep her ay cheery, 

My charnung sweet Namy, gin tliou wert my ain. 
I'll work at my calling to furnish thy dwelling, 

With ev'ry thing needful tliy life to sustain ; 
Thou shall not sit single, but by a clear ingle, 

I'll marrow thee, Nancy, when thou art my ain. 

I'll make true afTection the constant direction 

Of loving my Nancy, while life dolh remain ; 
Tho' youth will be wasting, true love shall be lasting, 

My charming sweet Nancy, gin thou wert my ain. 
But what if my Nancy should alter her fancy, 

To favour another be forward and fain, 
I will not c(im['el her, but plainly I'll tell her, 

Begone, thou false Nancy, thou'se ne'er be ray ain. 

THE OLD MAN'S SONG. 

BY THE REVEREND J. SKINNER. 

Tune — " Dumbarton DrumB." 

O ! why should old age so much wound us 7 O, 
There is nothing in't all to ronfoimd us, O, 

For bow happy now am I, 

With my old wife sitting by, 
AinI our bairns and our oys all around us, O. 



who has given such high approbation to 
my poor Lntinit;/ ; you may let him know 
that as I have likewise been a dabbler in 
Latin poetry, I have two things that I 
would, if he desires it, submit, not to his 
judgment, but to his amusement ; the 
one, a translation of Christ's Kirk o' the 
Green, printed at Aberdeen some years 
ago ; the other, Batrachomyomachia Ho- 
meri latinis vestita cum additamentis, given 
in lately to Chalmers, to print if he pleas- 
es. Mr. C. will know Scria non semper 

We began in the world wi' naething, O, 
And we've jogg'd on and toil'd for the ae thing, O, 
We made use of what we had. 
And our thankful hearts were glad, 
When we got the bit meat and tlie claething, O. 

We have liv'd all our life-time contented, O, 
Since the day we became first acquainted, O, 

It's true we've been but poor, 

And we are so to this hour. 
Yet we never yet repined nor lamented, O 

We ne'er thought of schemes to be wealthy, O, 
By ways tiiat were cunning or stealthy, O, 
But we always had the bliss, 
And what further could wo wiss, 
To be pleas'd wi' ourselves, and be healthy, O. 

What tho' we canna boast of our guineas, O, 
We have plenty of Jockies and Jeanies, O, 

And these I'm certain, are 

More desirable by far, 
Than a pocket full of poor yellow sleenies, O. 

We have seen many wonder and ferlie, O, 
Of changes that almost are yearly, O, 

Among rich folks up and down, 

Both in country and in town, 
Who now live but scrimply and barely, O. 

Then why should people brag of prosperity, O, 
A straitened life we see is no rarity, O, 

Indeed we've been in want. 

And our living been but scant, 
Yet we never were reduced to need charity, O 

In this house we first came together, O, 

Where we've long been a Father and a Mither, Oi 

And, tho' not of stone and lime, 

It will last us a' our time, 
And, I hope, we shall never need anither, O. 

And when we leave this habitation, O, 
We'll depart with a good commendation, O. 

We'll go hand in hand I wiss, 

To a better house than this. 
To make room for the next generati(m, O. 

Then why should old age so much wound us 1 O, 
There's nothing in't all to confound us, f), 

For how happy now am T, 

With my old wife sitting by. 
And our bairns and our oys all around us, O. 



J 22 



LETTERS. 



Jelfidanl. nonjoca semper. Semper delec- 
tant seria mixta joris. 

T have just room to repeat compliments 
and good wishes from, 

Sir, your humble servant, 
JOHN SKINNER. 



No. XLVIII. 
TO PROFESSOR DUGALD STEWART. 
Mauchline, 3d May, 1788. 

SIR, 

I ENCLOSE you one or two more of my 
bagatelles. If the fervent wishes of ho- 
nest gratitude have any influence with 
that great unknown Being, who frames 
the chain of causes and events, prosperi- 
ty and happiness will attend your visit to 
the Continent, and return you safe to 
your native shore. 

Wherever I am, allow me. Sir, to claim 
it as my privilege to acquaint you with 
my progress in my trade of rhymes ; as I 
am sure I could say it with truth, that 
next to my little fame, and the having it 
in my power to make life more comforta- 
ble to those whom nature has made dear 
to me, I shall ever regard your counte- 
nance, your patronage, your friendly good 
offices, as the most valued consequence of 
my late success in life. 



No. XLIX. 

EXTRACT OF A LETTER 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Mauchline, Ath May, 1788. 

MADAM, 

Dryden's Virgil has delighted mo. 
I do not know whether the critics will 
agree witli me, but the Gcorgics are to 
me by far the best of Virgil. It is, in- 
deed, a species of writing entirely new to 
me, and has filled my head witli a thou- 
sand fancies of emulation : but, alas ! 
when I read the Gcorficics and then sur- 
/ey my own powers, 'tis like the idea of a 
Shetland pony, drawn up by the side of a 
thorough-bred Imnte , to start for the 



plate. I own I am disappointed in the 
^7ieid. Faultless correctness may please, 
and does highly please the lettered critic: 
but to that awful character I have not the 
most distant pretensions. I do not know 
whether I do not hazard my pretensions 
to be a critic of any kind, when I say, that 
I think Virgil, in many instances, a ser- 
vile copier of Homer. If I had the Odys- 
sey by me, I could parallel many passages 
where Virgil has evidently copied, but by 
no means improved Homer. Nor can I 
think there is any thing of this owing to 
the translators ; for, from every thing I 
have seen of Dryden, I think him, in ge- 
nius and fluency of language. Pope's mas- 
ter. I have not perused Tasso enough to 
form an opinion ; in some future letter 
you shall have my ideas of him; though I 
am conscious my criticisms must be very 
inaccurate and imperfect, as there I have 
ever felt and lamented my want of learn- 
ing most- 



No. L. 



TO THE SAME. 

Zlth May, 1788. 

MADAM, 

I HAVE been torturing my philosophy 
to no purpose to account for that kind 
partiality of yours, which, unlike * * 
* has followed me in my return to the 
shade of life, with assiduous benevolence. 
Often did I regret, in the fleeting hours of 
my Will-o'-Wisp-appearance, that " here 
I had no continuing city ;" and, but for 
the consolation of a few solid guineas, 
could almost lament the time that a mo- 
mentary acquaintance with wealth and 
splendour put me so much out of conceit 
with the sworn companions of my road 
through life, insignificance and poverty. 



There are few circumstances relating 
to the unequal distribution of the good 
things of this life, that give me more vex- 
ation ' I mean in what I see around me,) 
than the importance the opulent bestow 
on their trifling family aft'airs, compared 
with the very same things on the con- 
tracted scale of a cottage. Last after- 
noon I had the honour to spend an hour 
or two at a good woman's fire-side, where 
the planks that composed the floor were 
decorated with a splendid carpet, and the 



LETTERS. 



123 



gay tables sparkled with silver and china. 

Tis now about term-day, and there has 
been a revolution among those creatures, 
who, though in appearance partakers, and 
equally noble partakers, of the same na- 
ture with Madame, are from time to time, 
their nerves, their sinews, their health, 
strength, wisdom, experience, genius, 
time, nay, a good part of their very 
thoughts, sold for months and years, * 
* * * not only to the ne- 
cessities, the conveniences, but the ca- 
prices of the important few.* We talked 
of the insignificant creatures ; nay, not- 
withstanding their general stupidity and 
rascality, did some of the poor devils the 
honour to commend them. But light be 
the turf upon his breast who taught — 
" Reverence thyself." We looked down 
on the unpolished wretches, their imper- 
tinent wives and clouterly brats, as the 
lordly bull does on the little dirty ant- 
hill, whose puny inhabitants he crushes in 
the carelessness of his rambles, or tosses 
in the air in the wantonness of his pride. 



No. LI. 
TO THE SAME. 

AT MR. DUNLOP'S, HADDINGTON. 

ElUsland, 13th June, 1788. 

" Where'er I roam, whatever reahns I see, 
My lieart, untravell'd, fondly turns to tliee, 
Still to mybnitherturns witli ceaseless pain, 
And drags at each remove alenglhen'd chain." 
* Goldsmith, 

This is the second day, my honoured 
friend, that I have been on my farm. A 
solitary inmate of an old smoky Spence ; 
far from every object I love, or by whom 
I am beloved ; nor any acquaintance old- 
er than yesterday, except Jenny Gcddes, 
the old mare I ride on ; while uncouth 
cares and novel plans hourly insult my 
awkward ignorance and bashful inexperi- 
e'^ce. There is a foggy atmosphere na- 
tive to my soul in the hour of care, conse- 
q'lently the dreary objects seem larger 
than the life. Extreme sensibility, irri- 
tated and prejudiced on the gloomy side 
by a series of misfortunes and disappoint- 

* Servants, in Pcotloiid, are hired from term to term ; 
/. e. from Whitsunday to Martinmaa, &.C 
W 2 



ments, at that period of my existence 
when the soul is laying in her cargo of 
ideas for the voyage of life, is, I believe, 
the principal cause of this unhappy frame 
of mind. 

" The valiant, in himself, what can he suffer ? 
Or wliat need he regard his single woes V &c. 

Your surmise. Madam, is just; I am in 
deed a husband. 



I found a once much-loved and still 
much-loved female, literally and truly 
cast out to the mercy of the naked ele- 
ments ; but I enabled her to purchase a 
shelter ; and there is no sporting with a 
fellow-creature's happiness or misery. 

The most placid good-nature and sweet- 
ness of disposition ; a warm heart, grate- 
fully devoted with all its powers to love 
me ; vigorous health and sprightly cheer- 
fulness, set off to the best advantage by a 
more than commonly handsome figure ; 
these, I think in a woman, may make a 
good wife, though she should never have 
read a page but the Scriptures of the Old 
and JVety Testament^ nor have danced in a 
brighter assembly than a penny-pay wed- 
dingr. 



No. LIL 
TO MR. P. HILL. 

MY DEAR HILL, 

I SHALL say nothing at all to your 
mad present — you have long and often 
been of important service to me, and I 
suppose you mean to go on conferring ob- 
ligations until I shall not be able to lift up 
my face before you. In the mean time, 
as Sir Roger de Coverly, because it hap- 
pened to be a cold day in which he made 
his will, ordered his servants great coats 
for mourning, so, because I have been this 
week plagued with an indigestion, I have 
sent you by the carrier a fine old ewe 
milk cheese. 

Indigestion is the devil : nay, 'tis the 
devil and all. It besets a man in every 
one of his senses. I lose my appetite at 
the sight of successful knavery, and sicken 



lU 



LETTERS. 



to loathing at the noise and nonsense of 
6eir-imi)oitant folly. When tiie Iiollow- 
lu^iirtod \vr(;tch lakes mo !)y the hand, the 
feelins^ spoils my diimcr; the proud man's 
wine "so olleiuls my palate that it chokes 
me in the onlU;! ; and tiie pulvi/ixcd, I'vii- 
lliered, i)ert coxcomb, is so disjriistl'ul in 
my nostril, that my stomach tnrns. 

If ever yon liave any of tlieso disagree- 
able sensations, let me prescribe for yon 
patience and a bit of my clieese. 1 know 
that yon arc no ni<f<>-ard of yonr good 
things among yonr frieinls, and some of 
them are in nmch need of a slice. Tln^re 
in my eye is our friend, Smellie ; a man 
positively of the first abilities and great- 
est strength of mind, as \V(dl as on(M)fthe 
best hearts and keenest wits that 1 have 
f!ver met with ; when ymi see iiim, as 
alas ! lie too is smarting at the pineh of 
distressful circnmstanees, aggravated by 
the sneer of contnnu'lions greatness — a 
bit of my cheese alone will not cure him; 
bnt if yon add a tankard of brown stout, 
and superadd a magnmn of right Oporto, 
yon will see his sorrows vanish like tiic 
morning mist before the summer sun. 

C h, the earliest friend, except my 

only brother, that 1 have on earth, and 
one of the wort hiest fellows that ever any 
man called by the name of friend, if a 
luncheon i)f my cheese would help to rid 
him of some of iiis snp(>rabnndant modes- 
ty, you would do well to give it him. 

David,* with his Coiirnnt, comes too, 
across my recollection, and I beg yon will 
help him largely from tlu> said ewe-milk 
chiM\^e, to enal)le iiim to digest those — 
bedaubing paragrajihs with which he is 
eternally larding the lean characters of 
certain great men in a certain great town. 
1 grant yon the periods arc very well 
turned ; so, a fresh vcrcr ig a very good 
thing, bnt when thrown at a man in a pil- 
lory it does not at all imjirove his figure, 
not to mention the irreparable loss of the 
egg- 

My facetious friend, D r, T would 

wish also to be a i)artak(M": not to digest 
his spleen, fir that he laughs otf, but to 
digest his last night's wine at the last field 
flay of the Crochallan corps. f 

Among onrcounnon friends, I must not 

• I'rinlpr of the Filinl)tiisli I'voniiig Couraiit. 
t A club ot clioico spirits. 



forget one of tne dearest of them, Cun- 
ningham. The brutality, insolence, and 
sellishness oi"a world unworthy of liaving 
such a fellow as ho is in it, 1 know sticks 
in his stomach ; and if you can help him 
to any thing that will make him a little 
easier on that score, it will be very obli- 
ging. 

As to honest .T S e, he is such 

a contented happy man, that 1 know not 
what can annoy him, except perhaps he 
may not have got the better of a parcel 
of ntodest anecdotes which a certain poet 
gave him one night at supper, the last 
time the said poet was in town. 

Though I have mentioned so many men 
of law, t shall have nothing to do with 
them professedly. — Tlie faculty are be- 
yond my prescription. As to their clients, 
that is another thing: God knows they 
have nmch to digest ! 

The clergy T pass by ; their profimdity 
of erudition, and their liberality of senti- 
ment; their total want of pride, and their 
detestation of hypocrisy, are so proverbi- 
ally notorious tvs to place them far, far 
above I'ither my praise or censure. 

I was going to mention a man of worth, 
whom I have the honotir to call friend, 
the Laird of Craigdarroeh ; but I iiave 
s])oken to the landlord of the Kiug's-arms 
inn here, to have, at the next county- 
meeting, a large ewe-milk cheese on the 
table, for the benefit of the Dumfries- 
shire whigs, to enable them to digest the 
Duke of Queensberry's late political con- 
duct. 

I have just this momenf an opportuni- 
ty of a privat(> hand to Edinburgh, as per- 
haps you would not digest double post- 



No. LIIL 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 
J\Iaiuhline, 2d August, 17G8 

nONOURF.n MAPAIM, 

Yonn kind letter welcomed me, yes- 
ternight, to Ayrshire. 1 am mdeed seri- 
ously angry with you at the (iiianltnn of 
your luck-/icnny : but, vexed and Imrl as 



LETTERS. 



125 



I was, I could not help laiin[liin<r very 
heartily at tlie noble Lord's apology for 
the missed napkin. 

I would write you from Nilhsdale, and 
pivc you my dirc-ction Ihnm, but 1 have 
scarce an opportunity of callinir at a post- 
office once in a fortnigiit. I am six miles 
from Dumfries, am scarcely ever in it my- 
self, and, as yet, have little acquaintance 
m the neiofhbourhood. Besides, I am now 
very busy on my farm, buildintr a dwell- 
inp-house; as at present T am almost an 
evan<Tclical man in Nithsdale, for I have 
ecarce " where to lay my head." 

There are some passajres in your last 
that broufi^ht tears in my eyes. " The 
heart knoweth its own sorrows, arid a 
stronger intermeddleth not therewitii." 
The repository of these "sorrows of the 
heart," is a kind of snnrtum sanctorum ; 
and 'tis only a chosen friend, and that too 
at particular sacred times, who dares en- 
ter into them. 

" (Icavon oft, tfiars the bosoiri cliords 
Tiiut iialure finest strung." 

Yon will excuse this quotation for the 
sake of the author. Instead of entering 
on this subject farther, I shall transcribe 
you a l\;\v lines I wrote in a hermitage 
belonging to a gentleman in my Niths- 
dale neigiibourhood. They are almost 
the oidy favours the muses have confer- 
red on me in that covnitry.* 

Since T am in the way of transcribing, 
the following were the production of yes- 
terday, as T jogged through tlie wild liills 
of New-Cumnock. 1 intend inserting 
them, or something like them, in an epistle 
1 am going tf) write to the gentleman on 
whose friendship my excise-hopes depend, 
Mr. Graham of Fintry, one of the wor- 
thiest and most accomplished gentlemen, 
not only of this countrv, but T will dare 
to say it, of this ago. The following are 
just the first crude thouglits " nnhouseled, 
urianointed, \inanncaled." 



Pity the tuneful muses' helploss train : 
Weak, timid I.indsiiinn on lil'r's stormy main : 
The world were l)l<'ss'd,(lid blisa on them dopond; 
Ah! that" thn friendly o'crsliniild vvarita friend !" 
The liille fate bealows ilioy slmre as soon ; 
Uidikosage,proverlj'd wisdom's hard wrung boon. 

* Tlio linfs transcribi'rl were those written In Friars- 
Carse Heriuitugo. See Puems p. 02. 



Let prudence number o'er endi sturdy son 
Who life and wisdom at one race bigiin ; 
Who I'eel by reason, and who give by rule ; 
(Instinct's a brute, and sentiment i< fuol !) 
Who make poor ii>M tin wait upon (should; 
We own they're piudunt, but who owns llioy'i 
good ■? 

Ye wise ones, hence I ye hurt the social eye ! 
God's image rudely ctch'd on base alloy ! 
But come 

Here the muse left me. I am astonish- 
ed at what you t<dl me of Anthony's wri- 
ting me. I never received it. Poor fellow? 
you vex me much by telling me that ho 
is tuifortunate. I shall be in Ayrshire 
ten days from this date. I have just room 
for an old Roman farewell ! 



No. LIV. 
TO THE SAME. 
Mrmchline, \Olh August^ 1708. 

MV MUCH MONOURKn FRIENO, 

Yours of the 24th June is before me. 
I found it, as well as another valued friend 
— my wife, waiting to welcome me to 
Ayrshire : I met both with the sincercst 
pleasure. 

When T write you. Madam, I do not 
sit down to answer every paragraph of 
yours, by echoing every sentiment, like 
the fnithful Commons of Great Britain in 
Par) lament assembled, answering a speech 
from the best of kings ! I express myself 
in the fulness of my heart, and may per- 
haps be guilty of neglecting some of your 
kind inquiries ; but not, from your very 
odd reason, that I do not read your letters. 
Ail your epistles for several months have 
cost me nothing, except a swelling throb 
of gratitude, or a deep felt sentiment of 
veneration. 

Mrs. Burns, Madam, is the identical 
woman 



When she first found herself" as women 
wish to be who love their lords," as I 
loved her nearly to distraction, we took 
steps for a private marriage. Her pa- 
rents got the hint : and not only forbade 
me her company and the house, but, on 
my rumoured West-Indian voyage, got a 



/26 



LETTERS. 



warrant f,o put me in jail till I should find 
Beciirity m iny about-to-be paternal rela- 
tion. You know my lucky reverse of for- 
tune. On my crlatdnt return to Mauch- 
linc, T was made very welcome to visit 
my g"ir). The usual consequences began 
to* betray her; and as I was at that time 
laid up a cripple in Edinburgh, slio was 
turned, literally turned out of doors: and 
I wrote to a friend to shelter her till my 
return, when our marriage was declared. 
Her happiness or misery were in my 
hands; and who could trifle with such a 
dcposile ? 



I can easily fnncy a more agreeable 
companion for my journey of life, but, 
upon my honour, I have never seen the 
individual instance 



Circumstanced as I am, I could never 
have got a female partner for life, who 
could have entered into my favourite stu- 
dies, relished my favourite authors, &.c. 
withoiit probably entailing on me, at the 
same time, expensive living, fantastic ca- 
price, perhaps apish affectation, with all 
the other blessed boarding-sciiool acquire- 
ments, wliirli (pnrdonncz vwi, Madamp,) 
art! sometimes, to be found among females 
of the upper ranks, but almost univer- 
sally pervade tiic misses of the would-bc- 
gentry. 



T like your way in your cliurch-yard 
lucubrations. Tlioughts that are the 
spontaneous result ofaccidental situations, 
eitlier respecting health, place, or compa- 
ny, have often a strength and always an 
originality, tliat would in vain be looked 
for HI fancied circumstances and studicnl 
paragraphs. For me, I have often thougjit 
of keeping a letter, in profi;7'ef!i!ii>n., by me, 
to send you wlien the sheet was written 
out. Now I talk of sheets, I must tell 
you, my reason for writing to you on pa- 
per of this kind, is my pruriency of wri- 
ting to you at large. A page of post is on 
such a dissocial narrow-minded scale that 
I cannot abide it; and double letters, at 
I'^ast in my miscellaneous rrvcri. manner, 
are a monstrous tax in a close correspon- 
dence. 



No. LV. 
TO THE SAME. 

ElUsland, \(ilh, August, 178n. 

I AM in a fine disposition, my honour- 
ed friend, to send you an elegiac epistle, 
and want only genius to make it quite 
Shenstonian. 

" Why droops my linart vvitli fancied woos forlorn ? 
Why biuks my suul bciit'aUi each wiiu'ry sky 1" 



My increasing cares in this, as yet, 
strange country — gloomy conjectures in 
the dark vista of futurity — consciousness 
of my own inability for the struggle of 
the world — my broadened mark to mis- 
fortune in a wife and children ; — I could 
indulge these retlcctions, till my humour 
should ferment into the most acid chagrin, 
that would corrode the very thread of life. 

To coimterwork these baneful feelings, 
I have sat down to write to you ; as I de- 
clare upon my soul, I alwa\'s find that 
the most sovereign balm for my wounded 
spirit. 

I was yesterday at Mr. 's to din- 
ner for the first time. My reception was 
qtiite to my mind: from the lady of the 
hovise, quite flattering. She sometimes 
hits on a couplet or two, m^rowp/w. She 
repeated one or two to tlie admiration of 
all present. My sufirage as a professional 
man, was expected: 1 for once went ago- 
nizing over the belly of my conscience. 
Pardon me, ye, my adored household gods 
— Independence of Spirit, and integrity 
of Soul ! In the course of conversation, 
Johnson's Musical Jluseum, a collection 
of Scottish songs with the nuisic, was 
talked of. We got a song on the harp- 
sichord, beginning, 

•' Raving winds around her blowing."* 

The air was much admired ; the lady of 
thehousH asked me whose were the words; 
" Mine, Madam — they are indeed my very 
best verges :" she took not the smallest 
notice of them ! The old Scottish pro- 
verb says well, " king's caff is better than 
ither folk's corn." 1 was going to make 
a New 'J\^st anient quotation about " cast 
ing peaijs ;" but that would be too viru 

• See Poems, p. 107. 



LETTERS. 



127 



lent, for ilio lady is actually a woman of 
Bcnse and taste. 



After all that has been said on the other 
Bide of the question, man is by no means 
a happy creature. I do not sponk ofthe 
selected few favoured by partial heaven ; 
whose souls are turned to gladness, amid 
riches and honours, and prudence and wis- 
dom. I speak of the netflcctcd many, 
whose nerves, whose sinews, whose days, 
are sold to the minions of fortune. 

If I thouprht you had never seen it, I 
would transcribe for you a stanza of an 
old Scottish ballad, called The Life and 
Age of J\Ian ; beginning thus : 

" 'Twas in the sixtcoiilh hundor year 

Of God and firty-Ihree, 
Frae Christ was horn, that bouglit us dear, 

As writings testifie." 

I had an old grand-uncle, with whom 
my mother lived a while in her girlish 
years ; the good old man, f(/r such ho was, 
was long blind ere he died, during wnich 
lime, his iiighest enjoyment was to sit 
down and cry, while my mother would 
sing the simple old song of The IJfe and 
Jige <f Man. 

It IS this way of thinking, it is these 
melancholy truths, that make religion so 
precious to the poor, miserable children 
of men — if it is a mere phantom, existing 
only in the heated imagination of enthu- 
siasm, 

" Wlia' truth on earth so precious as the lie ?" 

My idle reasonings sometimes make 
me a little sceptical, but the necessities 
of my heart always give the cold philoso- 
phizings the lie. Who looks for the heart 
weaned from earth ; the soul affianced to 
her God; the correspondence fixed with 
heaven ; the pious supplication and de- 
vout thanksgiving, constant as the vicis- 
situdes of even and morn ; who thinks to 
meet with these in the court, the palace, 
in the glare of public life? No: to find 
them in their precious importance and di- 
vine efficacy, we must search atnong the 
obscure recesses of disappointment, afflic- 
tion, poverty, and distress. 

I am sure, dear Madam, yon are now 
mort than pleased with the Icnglh of niy 



letters. I return to Ayrshire middle of 
next week ; and it quickens my pace to 
think that there will be a letter from yon 
waiting me there. I must be here again 
very soon for my harvest 



No. LVI. 
TO R. GRAHAM, ESQ. OF FINTRY. 

sra, 

WifEN T had the honour of being in- 
troduced to you at Athole-house, I did not 
think so soon of asking a favour of yon. 
When lioar, in Shakspeare, asks old Kent 
why he wisJies to be in his service, he an- 
swers, " Because you have that in your 
face which I coidd like to call master." 
For some such reason. Sir, do I now so- 
licit your patronage. You know, I dare 
say, of an application I lately made to 
your Board to be admitted an offirer of 
excise. I have, according to form, been 
examined by a supervisor, and to-day I 
gave in his certificate, with a request for 
an order for instructions. In this affiiir, 
if I succeed, I am afraid I shall but too 
much need a patronising friend. Pro- 
priety of conduct as a man, and fidelity 
and attention as an oflicer, I dare engage 
for : but with any thing like business, 
except manual labour, I am totally unac- 
quainted. 



I had intended to have closed my late 
appoarance on the stage of life in the 
charactor of a country farmer; but, after 
discharging some filial and fraternal claims, 
I find I could only fight for existence in 
that miserable manner, which I have lived 
to see throw a venerable parent into the 
jaws of a jail : whence death, the poor 
man's last and often best friend, rescued 
him. 

] know. Sir, that to need your goodness 
IS to have a claim on it ; may I tliereforo 
beg your patronage to forward me in this 
aflair, till I be appointed to a division, 
where, by the help of rigid economy, I 
will try to support that independence so 
dear to my soul, but which lias been too 
often so distant from my situation.* 



* Upre followed the poetical part of the Epistle, givon 
in the I'ocnis, p. 79. 



128 



LETTERS. 



No. LVII. 
TO MR. PETER HILL. 

Mauchline, 1«< October, 1788. 

I HAVE been here in this country 
about three days, and all that time my 
cluef reading has been the " Address to 
Loch-Liomoud," you were so obliging as 
to send to me. Were I enipaniiolled one 
of the autlior's jury to determine his cri- 
minality respecting the sin of poesy, my 
verdict should be " guilty ! A poet of 
Nature's making." It is an excellent 
method for improvement, and what I be- 
lieve every poet does, to place some fa- 
vourite classic author, in his own walk of 
study and composition, before him as a 
model. Though your author hatl not 
mentioned tlie name I could have, at half 
a glance, guessed liis model to bo Thom- 
son. Will my brother-poet forgive me, 
if I venture to hint, that liis imitation of 
that immortal bard is, in two or three pla- 
ces, rather more servile than such a ge- 
nius as his required — e. g. 

To sooth the madding passions all to peace. 

ADDRESS. 

To sooth the throbbing passions into peace. 

THOMSON. 

T think the Address is, in simplicity, 
Sarmouy, and elegance of versification, 
fully equal to the Seasons. Like Thom- 
son, too, he has looked into nature for 
himself; you meet with no copied de- 
scription. One particular criticism I 
made at first reading ; in no one instance 
has he said too much. He never flags in 
his progress, but, like a true poet of Na- 
ture's making, kindles in his course. His 
beginning is simple and modest, as if dis- 
trustful of the strength of his pinion ; 
only, I do not altogether hke — 

" Truth, 
The soul of every song that's nobly great " 

Fiction is the soul of many a song that 
IS nobly great. Perhaps I am wrong: 
this may be but a prose-criticism. Is 
not the phrase, in line 7, page C. " Great 
Lake," too much vtdgarized by every-day 
language, for so sublime a poem .-' 

"Groat mass of warers, tlieme for nobler song," 

is porhnns no emendation. His enume- 
ration of a comparison with otlier lakes 



is at once harmonious and poetic. Evej t 
reader's ideas must sweep the 

" Winding margin of an hundred miles." 

The perspective that follows mountains 
blue — the imprisoned billows beating in 
vain — the wooded isles — the digression 
on the yew-tree — " Ben-Lomond's lofty 
cloud envclop'd head," &c. are beautiful. 
A thunder-storm is a subject which ha3 
been often tried ; yet our poet in his grand 
picture, has interjected a circumstance, 
so far as I know, entirely original : 

"The gloom 
Deep-seam'd with frequent streaks of moving fire." 

In his preface to the storm, " The glens, 
how dark between !" is noble highland 
landscape ! The " rain plougliing the 
red mould, too, is beautifully fancied. 
Ben-Lomond's "lofty pathless top," is a 
good expression ; and the surrounding 
view from it is truly great : the 

"Silver mist 
Beneath the beaming sun," 

is well described : and here he has con- 
trived to enliven his poem with a little of 
that passion which bids fair, I think, to 
usurp the modern muses altogether. I 
know not how far this episode is a beauty 
upon the whole ; but the swain's wish to 
carry " some faint ideaof the vision bright," 
to entertain her " partial listening ear," 
is a pretty thought. But, in my opinion, 
the most beautiful passages in the whole 
poem are the fowls crowding, in wintry 
frosts, to Loch-Lomond's " hospitable 
flood;" their wheeling round, their hght- 
ing, mixing, diving, &c. ; and the glo- 
rious description of the sportsman. Tliis 
last is equal to any thing in the Seasons. 
The idea of " the floating tribes distant 
seen, far glistering to the moon," provok- 
ing his eye as he is obliged to leave them, 
is a noble ray of poetic genius. " The 
howling winds," the " hideous roar" of 
" the white cascades," are all in the same 
style. 

I forget that, while I am tlius holding 
forth, witli the heedless warmth of anen- 
tliusiast, I am porluips tiring you with 
nonsense. I must, however, mention, 
tliat the last verse of the sixteenth page 
is one of the most elegant compliments I 
have ever seen. I must likewise notice 
that beautiful paragrnnh, beginning, 
"The gleaming lake," &.c. I dare not 



LETTERS. 



129 



go into the particular beauties of the two 
last parai,n-;iphs, but they are admirably 
fine, and truly Ossianic. 

I must beg your pardon for this length- 
ened scrawl. I had no idea of it when I 
began — I should like to know who the au- 
thor is ; but, whoever he be, please pre- 
sent him with my grateful thanks for the 
entertainment he has afforded me.* 

A friend of mine desired me to commis- 
sion for him two books, Letters on the Re- 
ligion essential to JIan, a book you sent 
me before ; and. The World Unmasked, 
or the Philosopher the greatest Cheat. Send 
me them by the first opportunity. The 
Bihle you sent me is truly elegant.. I 
only wish it had been in two volumes. 



No. LVIII. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP, AT MOREHAM 
MAINS. 

Mauihline^ \3th JS''ovember, 17.18. 

MADAM, 

I HAn the very great pleasure of di- 
ning at Dunlop yesterday. Men are said 
to flatter women because they are weak ; 
if it is so, poets must be weaker still ; for 
Misses R. and K., and Miss G. M'K.,with 
their flattering attentions and artful com- 
pliments, absolutely turned my head. I 
own they did not lard me over as many a 
poet does his patron * * * * 
but they so intoxicated me with their sly 
insinuations and delicate innuendoes of 
compliment, that if it liad not been for a 
lucky recollection, how much additional 
weight and lustre your good opinion and 
frieniJship must give me in that circle, T 
had certainly looked upon myself as a per- 
son of no small consequence. I dare not 
say one word how much I was charmed 
with the Major's friendly welcome, ele- 
gant manner, and acute remark, lest I 
should be thought to balance my oriental- 
isms of applause over against the finest 

• The poem, entitled, ^n. ./Jildrcss to r,nrh-Lnmond^ 
h» said to bo wiittrn by a gentleman, now one of tlie 
Masters of tlie Hiirh school at F.dinbiirj!li ; and the 
same who translated the beautiful story of the Paria, as 
published in the Beeof Dr. Anderson. . E. 



quey* in Ayrshire, which he made mo a 
present of to help and adorn my farm- 
stock. As it was on Hallowday, 1 am de- 
termined annually, as that day returns, to 
decorate her horns with an ode of grati- 
tude to the family of Dunlop. 



So soon as I know of your arrival at 
Dunlop, I will take the first conveniency 
to dedicate a day, or perhaps two, to you 
and friendship, under the guarantee of the 
Major's hospitality. There will be soon 
threescore and ten miles of permanent 
distance between us ; and now that your 
friendship and friendly correspondence is 
entwisted with the heart-strings of my 
enjoyment of life, I must indulge myself 
in a happy day of " The feast of reason 
and tho' flow of soul." 



NO. LIX. 



To * 



Jfovember 8, 1788 



Notwithstanding the opprobrious 
epithets with which some of our philoso- 
phers and gloomy sectaries have brand- 
ed our nature — the principle of universal 
selfishness, the proneness to all evil, they 
have given us ; still the detestation in 
which inhumanity to the distressed, or in- 
solence to the fallen, are held by all man- 
kind, shows that they are not natives of 
the human heart. Even the unhappy 
partner of our kind, who is undone, the 
bitter consequence of his follies or his 
crimes ; — who but sympathizes with the 
miseries of this ruined jirofligate brother.' 
we forget the injuries, and feel for the 
man. 

I went, last Wednesday to my parish- 
church, most cordially to join in grateful 
acknowledgments to the Author of all 
Goon, for the consequent blessings of the 
glorious Revolution. To that auspicious 
event we owe no less than our liberties, 
civil and religious, to it we are likewise 
indebted for the present Royal Family, 
the ruling features of whose administra- 
tion have ever been mildness to the sub- 
ject, and tenderness of his lights. 

* Heifer. 



ISO 



LETTERS. 



Bred and oducatcd in revolution prin- 
ciples, tlio principles of reason and com- 
mon sense, it could not be any silly politi- 
cal prejudico whicli made my iieart rtivolt 
at llic harsii, alnisive manniM- in wliicii the 
reven>nd gentleman mentionetl tiie House 
of Stewart, and which, 1 am afraid, was 
too mucii tlic laiiffuao-c of the day. Wo 
may rejoice suiliciently in our deliverance 
from past evils, without cruelly rakintr up 
the ashes of those whose misfortune it 
was, perlKii)s as much as their crime, to 
be llie authors of those evils ; and we may 
bless tiui) for all his jroodness to us as a 
nation, without, at the same time, cursinp; 
a few ruined, powerless exiles, who only 
harboured ideas, and made attempts, that 
most ot us would have done had we been 
in their situation. 

"• The bloody and tyrannical lirtnse of 
Stewart," may be said with propriety and 

i'ustice when compared with the present 
loyal Family, and the sentiments of our 
days ; but is there no allowance to be 
made for the maimers of the time ? Were 
tlie royal contemporaries of the Stewarts 
more attentive to their subjects' rights? 
Migiit not the epithets of " bloody and 
tyrannical," be with at least equal justice 
applied to the House of 'J'udor, of York, 
or any other of their predecessors.'' 

The simple state of the case, Sir, seems 
to be this : — At that period, the science 
of government, the knowledge of the true 
relation between king and subject, was, 
like other sciences and other knowledge, 
just in its infancy, emerging from dark 
ages of ignorance and barbarity. 

The Stewarts only contended for pre- 
rogatives which th(\v knew their prede- 
cessors enjoyed, and which they saw their 
contemporaries enjoying; but these pre- 
rogatives were inimical to tlu^ happiness 
of a nation and the rigiits of subjects. 

In this contest between prince and peo- 
ple, the conser|uence of that light of sci- 
ence which had lately dawned over Eu- 
rope, the monarch of France, for exam- 
ple, was victorious over the struggling 
liberties of his people ; with ns, luckily, 
the monarch failed, and his >mwarranta- 
ble pretensions fell a sacrifice to our rights 
and iiappiness. Whether it was owing to 
'he wisdom of leading individuals, or to 
flic justliiig of parting, T cannot- pretend 
to determiiie ; but li!\pwise, hai)pily for 
us, the kingly power was sliiiled into an- 



other branch of the family, who, as thej 
owed the throne solely to the call of a 
free people, could claim nothing inconsis- 
tent with the covenanted terms wliich 
placed them there. 

The Stewarts have been condemned 
and laughed at for the folly and impracti 
cability of their attempts in 1715 and 
1715. "That they failed, 1 bless Gon ; but 
cannot join in the ridicule against tiiem. 
Who does not know that tiie abilities or 
defects of leaders and commanders are 
often hidden, until put to the touchstone 
of exigency; and that there is a cnpricc 
of fortune, an omnipotence in particular 
accidents and conjunctures of circumstan- 
ces, which exalt us as heroes, or brand us 
as madmen, just as they are for or against 
us? 

Man, Mr. Publisher, is a strange, weak, 
inconsistent being: who would believe, 
Sir, that in this, our Augustan age of 
liberality and relinenient, while we seem 
s<i justly sensible and jealous of our rights 
and liberties, and animated with such in- 
dignation against the very memory of 
those who would have subverted them — 
that a certain people under our national 
protection, should complain, not against 
our monarch and a few favourite advisers, 
but against our WHOt.F, i.koisi.ativk nonv, 
for similar oppression, and almost in the 
very same terms, as our forefathers did of 
the House of Stewart ! I will not, I can- 
not enter into tiie merits of the cause, but 
T dare say, the American Congress, in 
177(>, will be allowed to be as able and as 
enlightened as the English Convention 
was in 10!>!> ; and that tlieir posterity will 
celebrate the centenary of their deliver- 
ance from us, as duly and sincerely as we 
do ours from the oppressive measures of 
the wrong-headed House of Stewart. 

To conclude. Sir : let every man who 
has a tear for the many miseries incident 
to humanity, feel for a family illustrious 
as any in Euro])e, and unfortunate beyond 
historic precedent; and let every I>riton, 
(and particularly every Scotsman,) who 
ever looked with reverential pity on the 
dotage of a parent, cast a veil over tiie 
fatal mistakes of tlie kings of liis fore- 
fatiicrs.* 

• This li'ttcr was .sent to tin-' pnlpllalior of same iipws- 
paper, pioliahly the piil)lislic;i of llic Kdi i.li ur/rh Kvl'tI' 
in:! Ciniranl. 



LETTERS. 



131 



No. LX. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP, 

FJlisland, \llh I)rr. 17fl0. 

MV PKAR, irONOURK.I) FliriCNr), 

Yoniis, (latnrl Kdiiiliiirfrli, vvliirh I 
hn.vo just rv.iu], makes inc vury iiiilitippy. 
•' Aliilost blinti, and wholly deaf," arc 
Diclanrholy ikjwh of human iintiirn; but 
\vli(!n told of a mncli-lovod and honoured 
friimd, tlioy carry misery in the sound. 
GoodiKiss on your part, and gratitudo on 
mine, bcfran a tie, which luis {rradually 
and stroufrly cntwistod itstdf amonjr the 
dearest cords of my bosom ; aiul I trerrd)lo 
at tlie omens of your late and prcisent ail- 
iujr hnbit.H and shattertid li(;alth. You 
miscalculate matters widely, when you 
forbid my waiting on you, lest it should 
hurt my wordly concerns. My small scab; 
off;irmirifT is exceedinj^ly more simple aiul 
easy than what you have lately seen at 
Morrdiam Mains. But be that as it may, 
the heart of the nian, and the fancy of 
the poet, arc tlio two jjrand considera- 
tions for which I live: ii'miry ridfres and 
dirty duutrhills are to engross the best 
I)art of the functions of my soid immor- 
tal, I had b(!t.ter been a rook or a iimir- 
pic at once, and tlum I should not have 
iieen pla^fued with any ideas superior to 
breakiufr of clods, and pickiuf'' up frrubs : 
not to mention barn-door cocks or mal- 
lards, creatures with which I could al- 
most exclian(To lives at any time — If you 
continue so df^af, I am afraid a visit will 
be no jrreat pleasure to cither of us; but 
if I hear you arc pot so well ajrain as to 
be able to relish conversation, look yon to 
it. Madam, for I will make my threaten- 
inrrs >rood. I am to be at the new-ycar- 
day fair of Ayr, and by all that is sacred 
in the word Friend! I will come and sec 
you. 



Your meetinfif, which you so well de- 
ecribe, with your old school-fellow and 
friend, was truly inferestinpr. Out upon 
the wayHof the W(jrld ! — They spoil these 
" social ofTspriufTs of the heart." Two 
veterans of the " men of the world" would 
have met with little rnore heart-workinprs 
than two old hacks worn out on the road. 
Apropos, is not the Scotch phrase, 
" Auld lan^ aynn,'' excoedinply cxprcs- 
Five.^ There is an old sonrr and time which 
has often thrilled throujrh my soul. You 



know I am an enthusiast in old Scotch 
Konps : I shall pivc yon the verses on the 
other sheet, as I suppose Mr. Kerr will 
vavc you the postage.* 

Tiipht be the turf on the breast of tho 
IFeaven-inspired poet who comjjosed this 
fjlorious fniprinent! 1'liere ismonjoftlic 
fire of native ffenius in it than half a do- 
zen of modern Krifrjish Bacchanalians. 
Now I am on my hobby-horse, 1 camiot 
help insertiiifr two other stanzas wiiich 
please me mifrhtily.f 



No. LXI. 
TO MISS DAVIES. 

A young lady who lind hoard lio liiid bnoii making a 
Uullad un her, cncluHin^ thut llulhid. 

December, 178R. 

MADAM, 

I uNi)r,RSTANi> my very wortliy nei<rh- 
bour, Mr. Riddle, has informed yoii that I 
have made you th(! subject of sorru; verses. 
'J'here is somethinfr so provokinjr in tho 
idea of bfjiuir the burdi;n of a biillad, that 
1 do not think .lob or Moses, thoufrh such 
patterns of patience and iru;(;kness, could 
have resisted tlie curiosity to know what 
that ballad was : so my worthy friend has 
done mo a mischief, which, I dare say, ho 
never intendc.'d ; and reduced me to tho 
unfortunate alt(;rnativc of leaviufr your 
curiosity ungratified, or else disgusting 
you with foolish verses, the uniinislied 
])roduction of a random moment, and 
n(!ver meant to have met your ear. I have 
lu.'ard or read somewhere of ag(,'ntlf:inan, 
who had some genius, much eccentricity, 
and very considerable dexterity with his 
I)encil. In the accidental group of life 
into which one is thrown, wherever this 
gentleman m(!t with a character in a more 
than ordinary di;gree congenial to liis 
heart, he used to steal a sketch of tlio 
face, merely, as he said, as a not.n. June 
to point out the agreeable recollection to 
his memory. What this gentleman's pen- 
cil was to him, is my muse to me : and 
the verses I do myself the honour to send 
you arc a memento f;xactly of the same 
kind that he indulged in. 

It may be morn owing to the fastidious 
ness of my caprice, than the delicacy of 

* Here follows the Hong of Jluld lanff aynr., ns printed 
In the pocrnfl. I). 

t Flure followfd the song, ^fy Bonnie Mary. Pocma. 
p. 37. 



132 



LETTERS. 



my taste, but I am so often tired, disgust- 
ed, and hurt, with the insipidity, affecta- 
tion, and pride of mankind, that when I 
meet with a person " after rny own heart," 
I positively feel what an orthodox pro- 
testant would call a species of idolatry, 
which acts on my fancy like inspiration ; 
and I can no more desist rhyming on the 
impulse, than an Eolian harp can refuse 
its tones to the streaming air. A distich 
or two would be the consequence, though 
the object which hit my fancy were gray- 
bearded age : but where my theme is 
youth and beauty, a young lady whose 
personal charms, wit, and sentiment, are 
equally striking and unaffected, by hea- 
vens! though I had lived threescore years 
a married man, and threescore years be- 
fore I was a married man, my imagination 
would hallow tlie very idea; and I am 
truly sorry that the enclosed stanzas have 
done such poor justice to such a subject. 



No. LXII. 
FROM MR. G. BURNS. 

Mossgiel, \st Jan. 1789. 

DEAR BROTHER, 

I HAVE just finished my new-year's- 
day breakfast in the usual form, which 
naturally makes me call to mind the days 
of former years, and the society in which 
we used to begin them : and when 1 look 
at our family vicissitudes, " thro' the dark 
postern of time long elapsed," I cannot 
help remarking to you, my dear brother, 
how good the Gon of Seasons is to us, 
and that, however some clouds may seem 
to lower over the portion of time before 
us, we have great reason to hope that all 
will turn out well. 

Your mother and sisters, with Robert 
the second, join me in the compliments of 
the season to you and Mrs. Burns, and 
beg you will remember us in the same 
manner to William, tlie first time you 
see him. 

I am, dear brother, yours, 

GILBERT BURNS. 



No. LXIII. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Ellisla7ul, JVew-Year-Day Morning. 

This, dear Madam, is a morning of 

Wishes , and would to God that 1 came 



under the apostle Jame^ s description ! — 
the prayer of a righteous man nvailetn 
much. In that case. Madam, you should 
welcome in a year full of blessings : every 
thing that obstructs or disturbs tranquilli 
ty and self-enjoyment, should be removed 
and every pleasure that frail humanity 
can taste should be yours. I own myself 
so little a presbyterian, that I approve of 
set times and seasons of more than ordi 
nary acts of devotion, for breaking in on 
that habituated routine of life and thought 
which is so apt to reduce our existence 
to a kind of instinct, or even sometimes, 
and with some minds, to a state very little 
superior to mere machinery. 

This day, the first Sunday of May, a 
breezy blue-skyednoon, some time about 
the beginning, and a hoary morning and 
calm sunny day about the end of autumn; 
— these, time out of mind, have been with 
me a kind of holiday. 



I believe I owe this to that glorious pa- 
per in the Spectator, " The Vision of 
Mirza ;" a piece that struck rny young 
fancy before I was capable of fixing an 
idea to a word of three syllables, "• On 
the fifth day of the moon, which, accord- 
ing to the custom of my forefathers, I 
always keep holy, after having washed 
myself, and offered up my morning devo- 
tions, I ascended the high hill of Bagdat, 
in order to pass the rest of the day in me- 
ditation and prayer." 

We know nothing, or next to nothing, 
of the substance or structure of our souls, 
so cannot account for those seeming ca- 
prices in them, that one should be par- 
ticularly pleased with this thing, or struck 
with that, which, on minds of a different 
cast, makes no extraordinary impression. 
I have some favourite flowers in spring, 
among which are the mountain-daisy, the 
hare-bell, the fox-glove, the wild-brier- 
rose, the budding-birch, and the hoary- 
hawthorn, that I view and hang over with 
particular delight. I never heard the 
loud solitary whistle of the curlew in a 
summer noon, or the wild mixing cadence 
of a troop of gray plover in an autumnal 
morning, without feeling an elevation of 
soul like the enthusiasm of devotion or 
poetry. Tell me, my dear friend, to what 
can this be owing. Are we a piece of 
machinery, which, like the Eolian harp, 
passive, takes the impression of the pass- 



LETTERS. 



133 



ing' accident ? Or do these workings 
argue something within us above the trod- 
den clod ? I own myself partial to such 
proofs of those awful and important re- 
alities — a God that made all things — 
man's immaterial and immortal nature — 
and a world of weal or wo beyond death 
and the- grave. 



No. LXIV. 
TO DR. MOORE. 

Bllisland, near Dumfries, 4th Jan. 1789. 

SIR, 

As often as I think of writing to 
you, which has been three or four times 
every week these six months, it gives me 
something so like the look of an ordinary 
sized statue offering at a conversation 
with the Rhodian colossus, that my mind 
misgives me, and the aflair always mis- 
carries somewhere between purpose and 
resolve. I have, at last, got some busi- 
ness with you, and business-letters are 
written by the style-book. I say my busi- 
ness is with you, Sir, for you never had 
any with me, except the business that be- 
nevolence has in the mansion of poverty. 

The character and employment of a 
poet were formerly my pleasure, but are 
now my pride. I know that a very great 
deal of my late eclat was owing to the singu- 
larity of my situation, and the honest pre- 
judice of Scotsmen; but still, as I said in 
the preface to my first edition, I do look 
upon myself as having some pretensions 
from Nature to the poetic character. I 
have not a doubt but the knack, the apti- 
tude to learn the Muses' trade, is a gift 
bestowed by Him, " who forms the secret 
bias of the soul ;" — but I as firmly believe, 
that excellence in the profession is the 
fruit of industry, labour, attention, and 
pains. At least I am resolved to try my 
doctrine by the test of experience. Ano- 
ther appearance from the press I put oif 
to a very distant day, a day that may 
never arrive — but poesy I am determined 
to prosecute with all my vigour. Nature 
has given very few, if any, of the profes- 
sion, the talents of shining in every spe- 
cies of composition. I shall try (for until 
trial it is impossible to know) whether she 
has qualified me to shine in any one. 



The worst of it is, by the time one has 
finished a piece, it has been so often view- 
ed and reviewed before the mental eye, 
that one loses, in a good measure, the 
powers of critical discrimination. Here 
the best criterion I know is a friend — not 
only of abilities to judge, but with good- 
nature enough, like a prudent teacher 
with a young learner, to praise, perhaps, 
a little more than is exactly just, lest the 
thin-skinned animal fall into that most 
deplorable of all poetic diseases — heart- 
breaking despondency of himself. Dare 
I, Sir, already immensely indebted to your 
goodness, ask the additional obligation of 
your being that friend to me ? I enclose 
you an essay of mine in a walk of poesy 
to me entirely new ; I mean the epistle 
addressed to R. G. Esq. or Robert Gra- 
ham, of Fintry, Esq. a gentleman of un- 
common worth, to whom I lie under very 
great obligations. The story of the po- 
em, like most of my poems, is connected 
with my own story ; and to give you the 
one I must give you something of the 
other. I cannot boast of — 



I believe I shall, in whole, lOOZ. copy- 
right included, clear about 400/. some 
little odds; and even part of this de- 
pends upon what the gentleman has yet 
to settle with me. I give you this in- 
formation, because you did me the ho- 
nour to interest yourself much in my wel- 
fare. 



To give the rest of my story in brief, T 
have married " my Jean," and taken a 
farm : with the first step, I have every 
day more and more reason to be satisfied ; 
with the last, it is rather the reverse. I 
have a younger brother who supports my 
aged mother ; another still younger bro- 
ther, and three sisters, in a farm. On my 
last return from Edinburgh, it cost me 
about 180/. to save them from ruin. Not 
that I have lost so much — I only interpo- 
sed between my brother and his impend- 
ing fate by the loan of so much. I give 
myself no airs on this, for it was mere 
selfishness on my part : I was conscious 
that the wrong scale of the balance was 
pretty heavily charged ; and I thought 
that throwing a little filial piety, and fra- 
ternal affection, into the scale in my fa- 
vour, might help to smooth matters at the 
grand reckoning. There is still one thing 



134 



LETTERS. 



would make my circumstances quite easy : 
I have an excise-oflicor's commission, and 
I live in tlio midst of a coiuitry division. 
My request to Mr. Graiiam, wiio is one 
of the connnissioucrs of excise, was, if in 
his power, to procure me tliat division. 
If 1 were very siiniruine, I niiirht hope 
tliat some of my great pal reus mij^ht pro- 
curt! me a treasury warrant for supervi- 
sor, surveyor-general, &c. 



Thus secure of a livelihood, " to thcc, 
sweet poetry, delif^'litful maid!" I would 
consecrate my future days. 



No. XLV. 

TO PROFESSOR D. STEWART. 

Ellisland, near Dumfries, 20lhJan. 1709. 



Thk enclosed sealed packet I sent to 
Edinburgh a few days after T had the 
happiness of meeting you in Ayrshire, but 
you were gane for tlie Continent. I have 
added a few more of my productions, those 
S)r which I am indebted to the Nithsdale 
Muses. The piece inscrilxMl to R. G. Esq. 
is a copy of verses I sent Mr. Graham, of 
Eintry, accompanying a request for his 
assistance in a matter, to me, of very great 
moment. To that gentleman I am already 
doubly indebted, for deeds of kindness of 
fierious import to my dearest interests, 
done in a manner grateful to the delicate 
feelings of sensibility. Tiiis poem is a 
Bpecies of composition new to me ; but I 
do not intend it shall be my last essay of 
tiie kind, as you vi'ill see by the " Poet's 
Progress." These fragments, if my de- 
sign succeeds, arc but a small part of the 
intended whole. I propose it sluill be the 
work of my utmost exertions ripened by 
years : of course I do not wish it much 
known. The fragment, beginning " A 
little, upright, pert, tart," &c. I have not 
ehown to man living, till now I send it 
you. It forms the postulata, the axioms, 
the definition of a character, which, if it 
appear at all, shall bo placed in a variety 
of fights. Tliis |)articular part I send you 
nu>rely as asampli^ of my hand at portrait- 
sketching; b'!t lest idle conjecture should 
pretend to point o\it tlie origiiuil, please 
let it be for your single, sole inspection. 



Need I make any apology fbr this trou- 
ble to a gentlenum wlio has treated me 
with sucli marked benevohMice and pecu- 
liar kindness; who has entered into my 
interests with so nuicii zeal, and on wiiosc 
critical decisions 1 can so fully depend ? 
A poet as I am by trade, these decisions 
to me are of the last consequence. My 
late transient acquaintance among some 
of the mere rank and file of greatness, 1 
resign with case; but to the distinguish 
ed clnunpions of genius and learning, I 
shall be «!ver and)itious of being known. 
The native g(Miius and accurate discern- 
ment in Mr. Stewart's critical strictures; 
the justness (iron justice, for he has no 
bowels of compassion for a poor jjoetic 
sinner) of Dr. Gregory's remarks, and tho 
delicacy of Professor Dalzel's taste, I 
shall ever revere. 1 shall be in Edinburgh 
some time next month. 

1 have the honour to be, Sir, 
Your highly obliged, 

And very Inunble servant, 
ROBERT BURNS. 



No. LXVI. 

TO BISHOP GEDDES. 

Ellisland, near Dumfries, 3(1 Feb. 1789. 

VENERABLE FATHER, 

As I am conscious, that wherever I 
am, you do me the honour to interest 
yourself in my welfare, it gives me plea- 
sure to inform you that I am here at last, 
stationary in the serious business of life, 
and have now not only the retired leisure, 
but the hearty inclination to attend to 
those great and important questions^ 
what 1 am ? where I am .'* and for what I 
am destined ? 

In that first concern, the conduct of tho 
man, there was ever but one side on which 
I was habitually blanieable, and there I 
have secured myself in the way pointed 
out by Nature and Nature's Gon. I was 
sensible that, to so helpless a creature as 
a poor poet, a wife and family were en- 
cumbrances, which a species of prudence 
would bid him shun ; but when the alter 
native was, being at eternal warfare with 
myself, on account of habitual follies to 
give them no wore nanu\ which no gene- 
ral exanipl(\ no lici^itious wit, no sopliis 
tical inlldelity, would to me, over justify 



LETTERS. 



135 



I must have boon a fool to have hesita- 
ted, and a madman to have made auotJier 
choice. 



In the affair of a livelihood, I tliink my 
self tolerably secure: I have good hopes 
of my farm; but should they fail, I liave 
an excise commission, wliicli on my sim- 
ple p(!tition, will at any time procure me 
bread. There is a certain stigma affixed 
to the character of an excise oflicer, but 
I do not intend to borrow honour from any 
profession ; and though the salary be com- 
paratively small, it is great to any thing 
that the first twenty-five years of my life 
taught me to expect. 



Thus, with a rational aim and method 
in life, you may easily guess, my reverend 
and much-honoured friend, that my cha- 
racteristical trade is not forgotten. T am, 
if possible, more than ever an enthusiast 
to the Muses. I am determined to study 
man, and nature, and in that view inces- 
santly ; and to try if the ripening and cor- 
rections of years can enable me to pro- 
duce something worth preserving. 

You will see in your book, which I bog 
your pardon for detaining so long, that I 
have been timing my lyre on the banks of 
Nith. Some large poetic plans that are 
floating in my imagination, or partly put 
in execution, I shall impart to you when 
I have the pleasure of meeting with you: 
which, if you are then in Edinburgh, I shall 
have about the beginning of March. 

That acquaintance, worthy Sir, with 
which you were pleased to honour me, 
you must still allow me to challenge; for 
with whatever unconcern I give up my 
transient connexion with the merely great, 
T cannot lose the patronizing notice of the 
learned and good, without the bitterest 
regret. 



No. LXVIT. 
FROM THE REV. P. CARFRAE. 



2dJan 1709. 



SIR, 



It' you have lately seen Mrs. Dunlop, 
of Dunlop, you have certainly heard of 



the author of the verses which accompa- 
ny this lett('r. lie was a man highly re- 
spectable for every accomplishment and 
virtue which adorns the character of a 
man or a christian. To a great degree 
of literature, of taste, and poetic genius, 
was added an invincible modesty of tem- 
per, which prevented in a great degree, 
his figuring in life, and confined the per- 
fect knowledg(; of his character and ta- 
lents to tiie small circle of his chosen 
friends. He was untimely taken from us, 
a few weeks ago, by an inflammatory fe- 
ver, in the prime of life — beloved by all 
who enjoyed his acquaintance, and lament- 
ed by all who have any regard for virtue 
and genius. There is a wo pronounced 
in Scripture against the person whom all 
men speak well of; if ever that wo fell 
upon the head of mortal man, it fell upon 
him. He has left behind him a consider- 
able number of compositions, chiefiy po- 
etical, sufficient, I imagine, to make a 
large octavo volume. In particular, two 
complete and regular tragedies, a farce 
of three acts, and some smaller poems on 
different subjects. It falls to my share, 
who have lived in the most intimate and 
uninterrupted frifmdship with him from 
my youth upwards, to transmit to you the 
verses he wrote on the publication of your 
incomparable poems. It is probable they 
were his last, as they were found in his 
Bcrutoire, folded up with the form of a let- 
ter addressed to you, and, I imagine were 
only prevented from being sent by him- 
self, by that melancholy dispensation 
which we still bemoan. The verses them- 
selves I will not pretend to criticise when 
writing to a gentleman whom I consider 
as entirely qualified to judge of their me- 
rit. They are the only verses he seema 
to have attempted in the Scottish style ; 
and I hesitate not to say, in general, that 
they will bring no dishonour on the Scoth 
tish muse ; — and allow me to add, that, 
if it is your opinion they are not unwor- 
thy of the author, and will be no discre- 
dit to you, it is the inclination of Mr. 
Mylne's friends that they should be im- 
mediately published in some periodical 
work, to give the world a specimen of 
what may be expected from his perform- 
ances in the poetic line, which, perhaps, 
will be afterwards published for the ad- 
vantage of his family. 



I must beg the favour of a letter from 
you, acknowledginfif the receipt of thisj 



130 



LETTERS. 



and to 1)0 allowod to subscribe inyaelf, 
with ijrri'iit ri'<,Mircl, 

Sir, your nK)st olxMlicnt sorvant, 
r. CARFRAE. 



No. LXVIII 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Kllishmd^Uh. March, 17!!9. 

IIkuk, iiui I, my iKMiourrd tViond, ro- 
turuod siilV iVoni tlic ciiiMtiil. To a man 
wlio luis a homo, liowovcr liumhlo or n>- 
inoto — it" tliat lioiui> is liko miuo, tlio sc(M1(< 
ot\louu>stic comliirt — tlio bust.lo of Edin-' 
burjjli will soon bo a busiuoss of Bicivon- 
\i\g disgust. 

•' Vnin poiiip ami glory of lliis woiM, 1 linic you." 

When T must skullv into a corui^r, b>st 
tbo rattliuij ('(luipaijfo of somo ofiipino; 
blockbt>ad sliouid imniijU' \\w \\\ the mirt\ 
I am tomi)tod to exclaim — " What m(>rits 
luis ho iuul, or what domorit havt^ 1 had, 
ill somo stato of pro-iwistcuco, tlint ho is 
nsiiorod into this stalt> of boinof with tho 
Br(>ptro of rule, aud tiu> koy of richos in 
his ])uuy list, aud I am kickod into tht^ 
world, tho sport of folly, or tho victim of 
prido?" I havo rend somowiioro of a nio- 
luirch (in Spain I think it was.) wlio was 
8o out of lunnour wit h tho I'tolomoau sys- 
tem of astronomy, that lio said, Iiad ho 
boon of tho (■iiKATou's council, lio could 
hav(> saved i\im a pn>at dt>al of labour and 
absurdity. 1 will not defend tliis blas- 
j)heuious speech; but oHi-n, as 1 hav(> 
{glided with iuunble stealth throuifb tho 
pomj) of Prince's street, it has suo;oostod 
itseli' to nu', as an improvement ou tlu> 
present lunuau fionn>, that a man, in pro- 
portion to iiis own conceit of his oonso- 
qnt>nco in tho world, couhl iuive ])ushod 
out the loiio-itudo of ids couuuon size, as 
n snail puslu's out his horns, or as we 
draw out a i)orspeclive. Tliis tritlinji' al- 
teration, not to mention tho i)ro(lioious 
eavino- it woidd be in the tear aud wear 
of the ueek and linib-siu(>ws of many of 
bis mitjesty's lieji-e subjects, in the way of 
t(issiu<'lheheadaudtiptoe-struttiuij,would 
cviiieMtly turn out a vast »dvant!iir(\ in 
nuablino- \is at once to adjust the ceremo- 
nials in aiakino- a bow, or mnkinir way to 
a oroiit uum, and that too within a second 
ofih(» precis(>si)liericalauo-leof nn'oriMirp, 
or an inch of tiu^ particular point of re- 
Bpccll'ul distance, vviiich the important 



creature itself requires ; as a moa«iiring- 
fjlaneo at its towerinij altitude would de- 
termine the alfair like instinct. 

Your are rij,rht. Madam, in your idea 
of poor JNlylne's poem, w hich he lias ad- 
dressed to me. 'J'lu> piiH'o lias a fjood 
(h>al of merit, but it has one ijreat fault 
— it is, by far, loo louj^. Hesidt>s, my 
siu-cess has eiu-ourao(>d such a shoal of 
ill-spawu(>d monsters to crawl into public 
notice, under the title of Scottish Poets, 
tluit th(> very term Scottish Poetry bor- 
ders on the hurles(]ue. When 1 write to 
Mr. ('arlVa(\ 1 shall advise him rather to 
try (Uio of his deceased friend's l'in<jlish 
pieces. I am jjrodiffiously hurried with 
my own matters, else 1 would have ro- 
(piested a perusal of all I\lylu(>'s poetic 
ptMti)rmaiu'(>s ; and would have olVered 
his friends my assistance in (>ither select- 
inir or correctinjr what would be proper 
for tht^ press. What it is that occupies 
nw so much, and perluii)s a little oppress- 
es luy present spirits, shall till up a pa- 
raoriaph in some future lettiM". In the 
menu time, allow mo to dost^ this epistle 
witii a i'ew lines done by a friend of mine 
* * * *. 1 jriv(> yoii them, that, as you 
have seen the orifjiual, you may puosg 
whether one or two alterations 1 have 
ventnr(Hl to make in them, bo any real 
improvement. 

liilto tlio Inlr plimt llint from our touch wltlidrawai 
Shrink, luiUlly Irarful, ovrn froin n|ipluuiii>. 
Ho all u uiotlior's t'oinli-si liopo o,iu dri'iini, 
Ami till you iiro, my clmrniiii); ♦ ♦ * •, soom, 
."^Iralnht an tlio \\i\ h'"'^"', oro lior liolls (llsclojio, 
Mild us tho mnltlou liluslitui; luiwllioiu lilows, 
I'liir lis tlio t'lilrost ol'i'iicli lovely kliiil, 
Vmir toriii sluill lie tho 111111^0 or>our iiilml ; 
Your iimiiMors shall so Iruo your soul oupross, 
■riuit all shall Ioiik to know llio worth thoy Ruosa; 
(\iu|;oiiiiil liojrts shall t;root with kiiidrtul love, 
Ami ovoii sick'iiiiig oiivy must approve* 



No. LXIX. 

TO Till". RKV. P. CARFRAE. 

I7«9. 
ni.vKRKNP am, 

I 1)0 not recollect that T have ever 
felt n severer paiior of shame, tlian on 
lookiuof at the diil(> of your obliixinn- letter 
which accompanied Mr. Mylne's poein. 

•TlK^so boBUliCul linos, wo havo loasnii to liollovo, 
aro tho pioiluctUui ot" llio lady to whom this Icilcr b uJ 
drosaed. K. 



LKTTKRR. 



137 



1 am njiicli lo hlnin*! : tlid lionoiir Mr. 
Myliic liiiH (loiio irii!, Kfoiidy cMliuiicfMl in 
ilH viiliM! by lli(! (!ii(lt!(iriiiff llii>ii|rli ni«;- 
liiuclioly- circiimHliinci' of il.s Ixmiijj tlio 
liiHi prodiK-.lioii ol' liin iihiis(!, (l(-:>in'vt!(l a 
bolter ruliirii. 

i Ikui', lis yoii liiiil, llioiiirlil, (i('s('n(liii(i^ 
n (-(i|)y of IIk; |i(iciii 1i> hoiiii! iicricMrn'iil 
piililiciilioti ; l)iil,, oti Hi;ci)iiil llioii/^rlilH, i 
Uin a(ViH(l tliiit,, ill llui iirrsciil, <:aH(!, it. 
would 1)1' an iiii|tri>|)cr hI,i'|). My hiiccchh, 
jMM'liiiiisnuiimfliMcr'idciital ii.Ki in 'riled, Iihh 
liroii^lit. an iiiiiiidatioii of iiiiiihi'Iiki! iiiidrr 
t,lii! iiaiiin of S(!oUiHli poi'Iry. SiiliH(;ri|»- 
l.ioii IiiIIh i'or t'lcotlisli pociiis hiivo so 
cIiiiiiiimI, and daily do dnn, liii> piililic, tliat. 
1,1)0 very iianii! is in danirnr ol" contrnipt. 
For tlicsii ri!aHon«, il' pnliliHliinf^ any of" 
Mr. MyliKi'H iiocins in a iiiiifniziiii', Ac. 
be fit, ail priidi-nt, in my opinion, il, rcr- 
t.ainly hIioiiIiI iioI, In; ii, KcoU.iKii por'in. 
'J'Ih! prolils <d" llio liibonr.s of a man of 
jjcniiiH aro, I liopo, iih iioiioiirabli! an any 
profil.H wlialcvcr ; and Mr. Myim-'H nda- 
iiori.M aro most iiiHlly ciitilli'd to thai, bo- 
luist liarvcst whirli fate Iiiih dcnird liim- 
H(df to reap. Hut l(;t tlii! IVirndH of Mr. 
IVIylno'H famo (arnoiifr wlioiii I cravo lln- 
honour ol' rankiiij*' tny;<''lf) alwiiyH kocp 
in «!y(! liiH n^Hin'c^labiiily iih a iiiiin and 
as a poi't, and liikr no iiKMiHiiro tliat, bi;- 
f'ori! tliij world knows any tbiiifr about 
liini, would risk liis naiiio and rliarac- 
ti!r bfiiiifj cla.sHod witb Ibti fools of tbi; 
l.imos. 

T liavo, Mir, Kornn cxpcriiMu;!' of piib- 
lishinjT, and tlii! way in wbicli I would 

rrocciid willi Mr. Mylnii's pocniH istlii.s: 
would iMililisli in two or tbri'i; I'liip-lirib 
and Sf^otlisli |)iibli(; |iiipiirH, any ono ol" liis 
Enplisli |)oiMns wliiidi Hlioiild, by privalr; 
jiid{,i^<,'!i, bo tlioiifrbt tlio most cxcollont, 
and rn(fntion it, at tbo Hami! tim(% as oik; 
of tin; i)rodiiol,ions of a liotliiaii farinor, 
of rcfspoittabl'! cliaraotor, I'.iloly dcooascd, 
whoso pofsms bis fririids bad it in idoa to 
piibliKb soon, liy .HiibniM-iption, for tbo sakt! 
of bis niimoroiiH family : — not in pity to 
that family, hut in jiiHtiro to what his 
friends think tbo pootic miirits of tlii! dr;- 
cc'itHfid ; and to sociin!, ill tin; most ofloo- 
tnal maniior, to tboso tondiir ooniio.vioiiH, 
whoHo rifrlit it is, tho poiumiary reward 
of Uioso mcrita. 



No. LX,\. 
'J'O DIt. MOOKE 
Kltiiland, %\d,I\hmh, ITH!). 

Hill, 

'riiK frciitlcmiiii who will delivi'ryoii 
Ibis is a Mr. Nielnon, a worthy olorf^'y- 
maii in my noi^rbboiiriiood, and a very 
particular acipiaintaiMM! of mino. Ah I 
liavo Iroiibled biiii with Ibis packet, I 
iiiiisl, liiiii biiii over to your (Miodness, to 
rec'oiiipcnsi' him for it in a way in which 
lie much needs your assisl.iiioe, and wiiiirc; 
yoiicaii ellectiially servi! him: — Mr. Niel- 
soii is on bis way for i''raiice, to wail, on 
bis draco of (,i,ueeiisberry, on Homo litUo 
business of a f^'ood di'iil of import iiiuro tt» 
iiim, and lie wishes for your instructions 
resiioctinjr Ibi! most olifrible modi; of l.ra- 
velliiiir, A'c. for him, when he bascrossod 
the cbiitiiKd. I Hboiild not hiivi; dared to 
take this liberty with yon, but that I am 
told, iiy tlioKO who liavo tho honour of 
your personal ac(piaiiilaiici\ that to hi; a 
poor lionent, Scot (111111111, is a letter of ro- 
commiMidaJion to you, and that to liavo it 
in your power to servo such a character 
(rives you much pleiiHuro. 



'I'lie oncIiiHed ode is :\ coiiiplimoni to tho 
TiKJinory of tin- late Mrs. '*"'+'*'*, of +*+>«** 
**. Yon, probalily, know hor personally, 
an honour of whieli I cannot boast; hut 
I spent my early years in hor nei(,'lihoiir- 
hood, anda.iiionf,'- herservaiilsand tenants, 
I know that she was dotoHtod with tho 
most honrlfelt cordiiiJily. Ilow<!ver, iti 
tho parlifuilar jiart of her conduct which 
roused my |)ool.i(; wr/itli, slio was much 
less lilamoable. In .laiiiiary last, on my 
road to Ayrshire, I had put up at IJailio 
Wlii;.|[liaiii'H in Sampibar, I lie only l,oli;r- 
ablo iiiii in the pbrco. 'I'bo frost wiiH 
keen, and the (rriiii ovoninff and howlinjT 
wiiiii were usberiiifr in a ni^ht of f-now and 
drift. iMy horse and I wore both much fa- 
tiiriiod with the biboiirs of tlii! <lay ; n,nd 
just as my friend tho Ihiilio and I weins 
l)iddin<r defiaiico to tho storm, over a 
smokiiiff howl, in wheels tin; fumiral pa- 
ireanlry of tbo late (rceat Mrs. ***''"''*, and 
poor r am forced to bravo all tlio horrors 
of tbo tompriSMioiis ni;r|il, and jade my 
br)rs(!, my yourifr favonrito horse, whom [ 
bad just cbrisloiied I'efrasiis, twelve miloH 
farther on, tbroufrli I be wildest moors and 
bills of AyrHJiiro, to Now Cumnook, tho 



138 



LETTERS. 



next inn. The powers of poesy and prose 
sink under me, when I would describe 
what. I felt. Suffice it to say, that when 
a good fire at New Cumnock, had so far 
recovered my frozen sinews, I sat down 
and wrote the enclosed ode.* 

T was at Edinburgh lately, and settled 
finally with Mr. Creech ; and I must own, 
that, at last, he has been amicable and 
fair with me. 



No. LXXI. 
TO MR. HILL. 

Ellisland, 2d April, 1789. 

I WILL make no excuses, my dear 
Bibliopolus (God forgive me for murder- 
ing language,) that I have sat down to 
write you on this vile paper. 



It is economy. Sir ; it is that cardinal vir- 
tue, prudence ; so I beg you will sit down, 
and either compose or borrow a panegy- 
ric. If you are going to borrow, apply to 



to compose, or rather to compound some- 
thing very clever on my remarkable fru- 
gality ; that I write to one of my most 
esteemed friends on this wretched paper, 
which was originally intended for the ve- 
nal fist of some drunken exciseman, to 
take dirty notes in a miserable vault of 
an ale-cellar. 

O Frugality ! thou mother of ten thou- 
sand blessings — thou cook of fat beef and 
dainty greens — thou manufacturer of 
warm Shetland hose, and comfortable 
siirtouts ! — thou old housewife, darning 
thy decayed stockings with thy ancient 
spectacles on thy aged nose ! — lead me, 
hand me, in thy clutching, palsied fist, up 
those heights, and through those thickets, 
hitherto inaccessible, and impervious to 
my anxious, weary feet ; — not those Par- 
nassian crags, bleak and barren, where 
the hungry worshippers of fame are breath- 
less, clambering, hanging between heaven 
and hell ; but those glittering cliffs of Po- 
tosi, where the all-sufficient, all-powerful 
deity, Wealth, holds his immediate court 

* The Ode enclosed is that printed in Poems, p. 63. E. 



of joys and pleasures; where the sunny 
exposure of plenty, and the hot walls of 
profusion, produce those blissful fruits of 
luxury, exotics in this world, and natives 
of Paradise ! — Thou withered sybil, my 
sage conductress, usher me into the re- 
fulgent, adored presence I — The power, 
spleodid and potent as he now is, was once 
the puhng nursling of thy faithful care 
and tender arms ! Call me thy son, thy 
cousin, thy kinsman or favourite, and ab- 
jure the god, by the scenes of his infant 
years, no longer to repulse me as a stran- 
ger, or an alien, but to favour me with 
his peculiar countenance and protection ! 
He daily bestows his greatest kindnesses 
on the undeserving and the worthless — 
assure him' that I bring ample documents 
of meritorious demerits! Pledge yourself 
for me, that for the glorious cause of Lu- 
cre I will do any thing — be any thing — 
but the horse-leech of private oppression, 
or the vulture of public robbery! 



But to descend from heroics, 



I want a Shakspeare : I want likewise as 
English Dictionary — Johnson's I supposfj 
is best. In these and all my prose com 
missions, the cheapest is always the best 
for me. There is a small debt of honour 
that I owe Mr. Robert Cleghorn, in 
Saughton Mills, my worthy friend, and 
your well-wisher. Please give him, and 
urge him to take it, the first time you see 
him, ten shillings worth of any thing you 
have to sell, and place it to my account. 

The library scheme that I mentioned 
to you is already begun, under the direc 
tion of Captain Riddel. There is ano- 
ther in emulation of it going on at Close- 
burn, under the auspices of Mr. Monteith 
of Closeburn, which will be on a greatei 
scale than ours. Capt. R. gave his in- 
fant society a great many of his old books, 
else I had written you on that subject ; 
but one of these days, I'shall trouble you 
with a communication for " The Monk- 
laud Friendly Society;" — a copy of The 
Spectator, Mirror, and Lounger ; Man oj 
Feeling, Man of the World, Guthrie s 
Geographical Grammar, with some reli- 
gious pieces, will likewise be our first 
order. 

When I grow richer I will write to you 



LETTERS. 



139 



on gilt post, to make amends for this sheet. 
At present every guinea has a five guinea 
errand with, 

My dear Sir, 
Your faithful, poor, but honest friend. 
R. B. 



No. LXXII. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, 4th April, 1789. 

I NO sooner hit on any poetic plan or 
ancy, but I wish to send it to you : and 
if knowing and reading these give half 
the pleasure to you, that communicating 
them to you gives to me, I am satisfied. 



I have a poetic whim in my head, which 
I at present dedicate, or rather inscribe, 
to the Right Hon. C. J. Fox : but how 
long that fancy may hold, I cannot say. 
A few of the first lines I have just rough- 
sketched, as follows.* 



On the 20th current I hope to have the 
lionour of assuring you, in person, how 
sincerely I am — 



No. LXXIII. 
TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

Ellisland, 4th May, 1789. 

MT DEAR SIR, 

Your duty-free favour of the 26th 
April I received two days ago ; I will 
not say I perused it with pleasure ; that 
is the cold compliment of ceremony ; I 
jjerused it, Sir, with delicious satisfaction 
— in short, it is such a letter, that not you 
nor your friend, but the legislature, by 
express proviso in their postage-laws, 
should frank. A letter informed with the 
soul of friendship is such an honour to 
human nature, that they should order it 
free ingress and egress to and from their 

• Here was copied the Fragment inscribed to C J. 
Fo.^ See Poems, p. 81. 

X2 



bags and mails, as an encouragement and 
mark of distinction to supereminent virtue. 

I have just put the last hand to a little 
poem which I think will be something to 
your taste. One morning lately as I was 
out pretty early in the fields sowing some 
grass seeds, I heard the burst of a shot 
from a neighbouring plantation, and pre- 
sently a poor little wounded hare came 
crippling by me. You will guess my in- 
dignation at the inhuman fellow who could 
shoot a hare at this season, when they all 
of them have young ones. Indeed there 
is something in that business of destroy- 
ing, for our sport, individuals in the ani- 
mal creation that do not injure us mate- 
rially, which I could never reconcile to 
my ideas of virtue. 



On seeing a Fellow wound a Hare with a 
Shot, April, 1789. 

Inhuman man ! curse on thy barb'rous art, 
And blasted be thy murder-fiiming eye : 
May never pity sooth tliee with a sigh, 

Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart 1 

Go live, poor wanderei of the wood and field 
The bitter little that of life remains : 
No more the thickening brakes or verdant plains, 

To thee a home, or food, or pastime yield. 

Seek, mangled innocent, some wonted form, 
That wonted form, alas ! thy dying bed, 
The sheltering rushes whistling o'er thy head, 

The cold earth with thy blood-stained bosom warm 

Perhaps a mother's anguish adds its wo; 

The playful pair crowd fondly by thy side ; 

Ah ! helpless nurslings, who will now provide 
That life a mother only can bestow. 

Oft as by winding Nith, I, musing, wait 
The sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn, 
I'll miss thee sporting o'er the dewy lawn, 

And curse the ruthless wretch, and mourn thy hap 
less fate. 

Let me know how you like my poem 
T am doubtful whether it would not be an 
improvement to keep out the last stanza 
but one altogether. 

C ■ is a glorious production of the 

Author of man. You, he, and the noble 
Colonel of the C F are to me 

" Dear as the ruddy drops which warm my breast." 

I have a good mind to make verses on you 
all, to the tun(> of " Three guid Jellowa 
ayont the glen-" 



140 



LETTERS. 



NO. LXXIV. 



The poem in the preceding letter had also been sent by 
our Bard to Dr Gregory for bis criticism. The fol- 
lowing is that gentleman's reply. 

FROM DR. GREGORY. 

Edinburgh, 2d June, 1789. 

EEAR SIR, 

I TAKE the first leisure hour I could 
command, to thank you for your letter, 
and the copy of verses enclosed in it. As 
there is real poetic merit, I mean both 
fancy and tenderness, and some happy ex- 
pressions in them, I think they well de- 
serve that you should revise them care- 
fully and polish them to the utmost. This 
I am sure you can do if you please, for 
you have great command both of expres- 
sion and of rhymes : and you may judge 
from the two last pieces of Mrs. Hunter's 
poetry, that I gave you, how much cor- 
rectness and high polisli enhance the va- 
lue of such compositions. As you desire 
it, I shall, with great freedom, give you 
my most W^orows criticisms on your verses. 
I wish you would give me another edition 
of them, inuch amended, and I will send 
it to Mrs. Hunter, who I am sure will have 
much pleasure in reading it. Pray give 
me likewise for myself, and her too, a copy 
(as much amended as you please) of the 
Water Fowl on Loch Turit. 

The Wounded Hare is a pretty good 
subject ; but the measure or stanza you 
have chosen for it, is not a good one ; it 
does not ,^010 well; and the rhyme of the 
fourth line is almost lost by its distance 
from the first, and the two interposed, 
close rhymes. If I were you, I would put 
it into a different stanza yet. 

Stanza 1. The execrations in the first 
two lines are too strong or coarse ; but 
they may pass. " Murder-aiming" is a 
bad compound epithet, and not very in- 
telligible. " Blood-stained," in stanza iii. 
line 4. lias the same fault : Bleeding bo- 
som is infinitely better. You have ac- 
cus*onied yourself to such epithets and 
have no notion how stiff" and quaint they 
appear to others, and how incongruous 
with poetic fancy and tender sentiments. 
Suppose Pope had written, " Why that 
blood-stained bosom gored," how would 
you have liked it .' Form is neither a po- 
etic, nor a dignified, nor a plain common 
word : it is a mere sportsman's word ; un- 
Buitable to pathetic or serious poetry. 



" Mangled" is a coarse word. " Inno* 
cent," in tliis sense, is a nursery word, 
but both may pass. 

Stanza 4. " Who will now provide that 
life a mother only can bestow .?" will not 
do at all : it is not grammar — it is not in- 
telligible. Do you mean, " provide for 
that life which the mother had bestowed 
and used to provide for .''" 

There was a ridiculous slip of the pen, 
" Feeling" (I suppose) for " Fellow," in 
the title of your copy of verses; but even 
fellow would be wrong; it is but a collo- 
quial and vulgar word, unsuitable to your 
sentiments. " Shot" is improper too. — On 
seeing a person (or a sportsman) wound a 
hare ; it is needless to add with what 
weapon; but if you tliink otherwise, you 
should say, toith a fowling piece. 

Let me see you when you come to town, 
and I will show you some more of Mrs 
Hunter's poems.* 



No. LXXV. 
TO MP M'AULEY, OF DUMBARTON. 
Ath June, 1789. 

DEAR SIR, 

Though I am not without my feara 
respectin[r my fate, at that grand, univer- 
sal inquest of right and wrong, commonly 
called The Last Day, yet I trust there is 
one sin, which that arch vagabond, Satan, 
who I understand is to be king's evidence, 
cannot throw in my teeth, I mean ingra- 
titude. There is a certain pretty large 
quantum of kindness, for which I remain, 
and from inability, I fear must still remain, 
your debtor ; but, though unable to repay 
the debt, I assure you. Sir, I shall ever 
warmly remember the obligation. It gives 
me the sincerest pleasure to hear, by my 
old acquaintance, Mr. Kennedy, that you 

* It must be admitted, that this criticism is not more 
distinguished by its good sense, than by its freedom 
from ceremony. It is impossible not to smile at the 
manner in which the poet may be supposed to have re- 
ceived it. In fact, it appears, as the sailors say, to have 
thrown him quite aback. In a letter which he wrote 

soon after, he says, " Dr G is a good man, but ho 

crucifies me." — And again, " I believe in the iron jus- 
tice of Dr. G ;" but, like the devils, " I believe and 

tremble." However, he profited by these criticisms, as 
the reader will find by comparing the first edition of 
this piece with that published in p- 69 of the Poems. 



LETTERS. 



141 



are, in immortal Allan's language, " Hale 
and wecl, and living ;" and that your 
charming family are well, and jiromising 
to be an amiable and respectable addition 
to the company of performers, whom the 
great Manager of tlie drama of Man is 
bringing into action for the succeeding 
age. 

With respect to my welfare, a subject 
in which you once warmly and effectively 
interested yourself, I am here in my old 
way, holding my plough, marking the 
growtli of my corn, or the health of my 
dairy ; and at times sauntering by the de- 
lightful windings of the Nith, on the mar- 
gin of which I have built my humble do- 
micile, praying for seasonable weather, 
or holding an intrigue with the muses, the 
only gipsies with whom I have now any 
intercourse. As I am entered into the 
holy state of matrimony, I trust my face 
is turned completely Zion-ward ; and as 
it is a rule with all honest fellows to re- 
peat no grievances, I hope that the little 
poetic licenses of former days will of 
course fall under the oblivious influence 
of some good-natured statute of celestial 
proscription. In my family devotion, 
which, like a good presbyterian, I occa- 
sionally give to my household folks, I am 
extremely fond of the psalm, " Let not the 
errors of my youth," &c. and that other, 
" Lo, children are God's heritage," &c. ; 
in which last, Mrs. Burns, who, by the 
by, has a glorious " wood-note wild" at 
either old song or psalmody, joins me with 
the pathos of Handel's Messiah. 



No. LXXVI. 



TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, 2\st June, 1789. 

DEAR MADAM, 

Will you take the effusions, the 
miserable effusions, of low spirits, just as 
tliey flow from their bitter spring? I know 
not of any particular cause for this worst 
of all my foes besetting me, but for some 
time my soul has been beclouded with a 
thickening atmosphere of evil imagina- 
tions and gloomy presagea 



Monday Evening. 
I have just heard * * * * gjyg g^ 
sermon. He is a man famous for his be- 
nevolence, and I revere him; but from 
such ideas of my Creator, good Lord, de- 
liver me? Religion, my honoured friend, 
is surely a simple business, as it equally 
concerns the ignorant and the learned, 
the poor and the rich. That there is an 
incomprehensibly Great Being, to whom 
I owe my existence, and that he must be 
intimately acquainted with the operations 
and progress of the internal machinery, 
and consequent outward deportment of 
this creature which he has made : these 
are, I think, self-evident propositions. 
That there is a real and eternal distinc- 
tion between virtue and vice, and conse- 
quently, that I am an accountable crea- 
ture ; that from the seeming nature of the 
human mind, as well as from the evident 
imperfection, nay, positive injustice, in 
the administration of affairs, both in the 
natural and moral worlds, there must be 
a retributive scene of existence beyond 
the grave — must, I think, be allowed by 
every one who will give himself a mo- 
ment's reflection. I will go farther, and 
aflirm, that from the sublimity, excellence, 
and purity, of his doctrine and precepts, 
unparalleled by all the aggregated wis- 
dom and learning of many preceding ages, 
though, to appearance^ he himself was the 
obscurest, and most illiterate of our spe- 
cies; therefore Jesus Christ was from 
God. 

* * * * 

Whatever mitigates the woes, or in- 
creases the happiness of others, this is my 
criterion of goodness ; and whatever in- 
jures society at large, or any individual 
in it, this is my measure of iniquity. 

What think you, Madam, of my creed ? 
I trust that I have said nothing that will 
lessen me in the eye of one whose good 
opinion I value almost next to the appro- 
bation of my own mind. 



No. LXXVH. ^ 
FROM DR. MOORE. 
Clifford Street, Wth June, 1789 

DEAR SIR, 

I THANK you for the different com- 
munications you have made me of yout 



occasinniil productions in mannscript, all 
orwliicli have inorit, and some of tlu'in 
merit of a ditleront kind from what a])- 

?cars in tiie pooms you have piihlished. 
'on oiiirht cari-fnliy to preserve all your 
occasional productions, to correct and im- 
prove them at your leisure; and when 
you can select as many of these as will 
make a volume, publish it either at Edin- 
burfrli or London, by subscription : on 
such an occasion, it n)ay bo in my power, 
as it is very much in my inclination, to be 
of service to you. 

If I were to offer an opinion, it would 
be, that, in your future productions, you 
should abandon the Scottish stanza and 
dialect, and ad()])t the measure and lan- 
guage of modern Knglish jjoetry. 

'Phi- stanza which you use in imitation 
of ( In-ist kirk on the Grcrn, with the tire- 
some repct ition of "■ that day," is fat iguiug 
to English ears, and I should think not 
very agreeable to Scottish. 

All the fine satire and humour of your 
IJolij Fair is lost on the lOnglish ; yet, 
without more trouble to yourself, you 
could have conveyed the whole to them. 
The same is true of some of your other 

poems. In your Fjiiislle. to J. S. , 

the stanzas, from that beginning with this 
line, " 'J'his life, so far's 1 uudmstand,' 
to that which ends with — "Slioit while 
it grieves," are easy, flowing, gayly phi- 
losophical, and of Iforatian elegance — 
the language is English, with a. few Scot- 
tish words, and some of those so harmo- 
nious as to add to th(» beauty ; for what 
poet would not prefer gloaming to twi- 
liglU? 

I imagine, that by carefully kcepmg, 
and occasionally polishing and correcting 
those verses, which thy Muse dictates, 
you will, within a year or two, have ano- 
ther volume as large as the first, ready 
for the pn\ss: and tliis without diverting 
you from every projjcr attention to the 
ptuily and practice of husbandry, in which 
I uiulerstand you are very learned, and 
which I fancy you will choose to adhere 
to as a wife, while poetry annises you 
from time to time ns a mistress. Tiie 
forniiT, like a prudent wife, must not show 
ill-iiumour, although you retain a sneak- 
ing kindness to this agreeable gipsy, and 
pay her occasional visits, which in no 
manner alienates your heart from your 
lawful spouse, but tends on the contrary, 
to promote her interest. 



LETTERS. 

I desired Mr. Cadell to write to Mr. 



Creech to send you a copy of Zeluco. 
This performance has had great success 
here ; but I shall bo glad to have your 
opinion of it, because I value your opmion, 
and because I know you are above say- 
ing what you do not think. 

I beg you will offer my best wishes to 
my very good friend, Mrs. Hamilton, who 
1 understand is your n(Mghbour. If she 
is as happy as I wish her, she is happy 
enough. Make my compliments also to 
Mrs. Burns: and believe mo to be, with 
sincere esteem, 

Dear Sir, yours, &c. 



No. LXXVIII. 
FROM MISS J. LITTLE. 

Loudon House, I2lh July, 1789. 
sin, 

TiioufiFi I have not the happiness of 
being personally acrpuuTitcd with you, yet, 
amongst \\\o, inuuber of those who iiave 
read and admired your publications, may 
I be permitted to trouble you with this. 
Yon must know, Sir, I am somewhat in 
love with the Muses, though I cannot 
boast of any favours they have deigned to 
confer upon me as yet ; my situation in 
life has been very much against nie as to 
that. I have spent some years in and 
about Eccelefechan (where my parents re- 
side,) in the station of a servant, and am 
now come to Loudon House, at present 
possessed by Mrs. II : she is daugh- 
ter to Mrs. Dunlop of Dunlop, whom I un- 
derstand you are particularly acquainted 
with. As I had the ph^asure of perusing 
your poems, 1 felt a partiality for the au- 
thor, which I should not have experienced 
had you been in a more dignified station. 
I wrote a few verses of address to you 
which I did not then think of ever pre- 
senting ; but as fortune seems to have fa- 
voured me in this, by bringing nio into a 
family, by whom you are well known and 
much esteemed, and where perhaps I may 
have an opportunity of seeing you, I shall, 
in hopes of your future friendship, tako 
the liberty to transcribe them. 



Fair fa' the linnost rustic swain 
The priiic o* a' our Scottisli i)lain, 



LETTERS. 



143 



Thou gle'B us joy to hfior tliy strain, 
And iioK^s sue sweet : 

Old Ran-.Kay's sliade reviv'd again 
III tliec wo greet. 

I.ov'd Thalia, llint dclinlitfiil mnse, 
PpcinM lane «li"t "P '"^ " ri-cluso ; 
To nil slu! did her airl reluwc, 

Since Alliin'sday ; 
'I'ill niirns arnije, then did nIio chuse 

To grace his lay. 

To linnr thy sang nil ranks desire, 
Bae weel yon strike the dormant lyre ; 
Apollo with i)o('lic fire 

Thy hrcast docs warm ; 
And critics silently admire 

Tliy art to charm. 

Cn'sat'and Liiatli weel can speak, 
•Tis pity e'er their gabs should stceki 
But into human nature keek. 

And knots unravel: 
To hear their h'clurcs once a week, 

Nino miles I'd travel. 

ThydedlrntlontoO. H. 

An unco bonnle hamcspun speech, 

Wi' winsome glee the heart can teach 

A better lesson, 
Than servile bards, who fawn and flccch 

Like beggar's musson. 

When slighted love becomes your theme, 
And women's faithless vows yon blame; 
With so much pathos you exclaim, 

In ycuir Lament; 
But glanc'd by the most frigid dame, 

She would relent. 

The daisy too, ye sing wi' skill ; 
And weel ye praise the whisky gill; 
In vain I blunt my feckless quill. 

Your fnmi' to raise ; 
While echo sounds from Ilka hill. 

To Durns's praise. 

Did Aildison or Pope but hear, 
Or Sam, that critic most s(!vere, 
A ploughboy sing with throat sac clear 

They, in a rage. 
Their works would a' in pieces tear. 

And curse your piige. 

Rnre Milton's elocpience were fnlnt, 
The bi'autles of your verse to paint ; 
My rude unpolish'd strokes but taint 

Tlieir brilliancy ; 
Til' attempt would doubtless vex a saint, 

And weel may thee. 

The task I'll drop — with heartslncero 
To Ih.'aven present my lMind)l(' pray'r, 
Tnat all the blessings mortals share, 

May be by turns 
DIspcns'd by m\ indulgent cnre, 

To Robert llurns! 



Sir, I hope you will pardon my boldness 
in tliis, my liaiid trcitililes wliilc 1 write 
to yi)ii, (M)iis(;ii)us ot" iriy ninvortliiinjya of 
wliat I would most earnestly solicit, viz. 
yotir favour and friciidsliip ; yet iioping 
yon will sliow yoursell" possessed of as 
mncli frenerosity ami good ntttiire as will 
])reveitt yonr exposinir what mny justly 
be Ibiind linble to censure in tiiis mt-a- 
snre, 1 shall take lite liberty to subscribe 
myself, 

Sir, 
Your most obedient, humble servant, 
JANF/r LITTLE. 

P. S. If you would condescend to ho- 
nour me with a few lines from your hand, 
1 would tak(! it as a ])iirticular favour ; 
and direct to me at Loudon House, near 
Galsto/i. 



No. LXXLX. 

FROM MR. ****** 

London, 5tk August, 1789. 

MY DEAR SIR, 

Excuse me when I say, that the un- 
common abilities which you possess must 
rend(?r your correspondence very accept- 
able to any one. I can assure you I am 
particularly proud of your partiality, and 
shall endeavour, by evt^ry method in my 
power to merit a continuance of your po- 
liteness. 



When you can spare a few moments, I 
should be proud of a letter from you, di- 
rected for me, Gerard-street, Soho. 



I cannot express my happiness suffi- 
ciently at the instance of your attachment 
to my late inestimable friend, Bob Ker- 
pusson,* who was particularly inlimatii 
with myself and rclalions. Wliile 1 rc- 
colli'ct with pleasure his extraordinary 
talents, tiiid nmny amiable qu!ili)i(!s, it af- 
fords me the greatest consolation llitit I 
am honoured with the correspondence ot 
his successor in national sim|)licity and 
g(Miius. That Mr. ]}urns has refined in 
the art of poetry, must readily be adinit- 

* Tho erection of a monument to liitn. 



144 



LETTERS. 



trd ; but notwithstanding many favonra- 
blo ropri'soiitations, I am yot to loam tiuit 
ho inliorits his convivial powers. 

Thoro was such a richness of conver- 
Batiou, such a plenitude of fancy and at- 
tracliou in him, that when 1 call the lui])- 
py ji'Tiod of our iutorcourtfo to my memo- 
ry, I feel myself in a state of delirium. I 
was tlu'U ycumjjer than him by eight or 
ten years, but iiis uuiuner was so felici- 
tous, that lie (Miraptured every person 
around him, and infused into the hearts 
of the young and the old the spirit and 
animation wiiich i>peratod on his own 
niuul. 

I am, Dear Sir, yours, &c. 



No. LXXX. 

TO MR. *****. 
In answer to the foregoing. 

MY DKAR SIR, 

TiiK. hurry of a farmer in tliis parti- 
cuhir season, and the indolence of a poet 
at all times and seasons, will, I hope, 
plead my excuse for neglecting so long to 
answer your obliging letter of tiio 5tli of 
August. 

That you havo done well in quitting 
your laborious concern in **** I do not 
doubt: the weighty reasons you mention 
were, I hope, very, deservedly, indeed, 
weighty ones, and your health is a mat- 
ter of the last importance: but whether 
the remaining proprietors of the paper 
have also done well, is what I nnu-h doubt. 
The *•*■*■*, so far as I was a reader, exhi- 
bited such a brilliancy of point, such an 
elegnnce of paragraph, and such a variety 
of intelligence, ti\at I can hardly conceive 
it i>ossible to continue a daily paper in the 
Bnine degree of excellence; but, if there 
was a man who had abilities equal to the 
task, that man's assistance tiie proprie- 
tors havo lost. 



When T received your letter, T was 
transcribing for "i"***, n\y letter to the ma- 
gisl rates of the Cauougate, Kdinburgh, 
begiXiug their permission to])laci"' a tomb- 
ptoneo\('r poor Fergusson,nnd their edict, 
•n consequence of my petition, but now I 



shall send them to * * * * Poor 
Fergusson ! If there be a life beyond the 
grave, which T trust there is; and if tlicre 
be a good (Jod ])r(>si(ling over all nature, 
which I am sure there is, thou art now 
("iijoying existence in a glorious world, 
where worth of the heart alone is distinc- 
tion in tlu> nuin ; where riches, deprivof' 
of all their pleasure-purchasing powers 
return to their native sordid matter: 
where titles and honour are the disre- 
garded reveries of an idle dream ; and 
where that heavy virtue, which is tiie ne- 
gative consequence of steady dulni^ss, and 
those thoughtless, though often destruc- 
tive follies, which are the unavoidable 
aherations of frail hmuan nature, will bo 
thrown into equal oblivion as if they had 
never been. 

' Adieu, my dear Sir ! So soon as yoni* 
present views and schemes are concen- 
tred in an aim, I shall be glad to hear 
from you ; as your welfare and happinesa 
is by no means a subject indiiferent to 

Yours, &c. 



No. LXXXI. 
TO MISS WILLIAMS. 



1789 



MADAM, 



Of the many problems in the nature 
of that wonderful creature, Man, tiiis is 
one of the most extraordinary, that lie 
shall go on from day to day, from week to 
week, from month to month, or perliaps 
from year to year, sutl'ering a hundred 
times more in an hour from tlie impotent 
consciousness of neglecting what we 
ought to do, than the very doing of it 
would cost him. I am deeply indebted 
to you, first for a most elegant poetic 
compliment;* then for a polite obliging 
letter; and lastly, for your excellent po- 
em on the Slave-trade; and yet, wretch 
that I am! though tiio debts were debts 
of honour, and the creditor a lady, I have 
put off, and put ofl", even the very acknow- 
h^dgment of the obligation, until you must 
indeed be the very angel I take you for, 
if yon can forgive me. 

Your i>oeni I have read with the high- 
est pleasure. I have a way, whenever I 

♦ Sob IVIiss Smith's Sonnet, page 101.— ijota 



LETTERS, 



145 



road n bonk, T moan a book in our own 
trii(i<\ MmiImiii, a pnotic ono, nnd wlicii it 
is my own jiropcsrly. Unit. I tnko a ijciutil 
and mark at tlio ("iids of vt'rs('s, or noti* 
on margins and odd pajx'r, lil.tlo critioisiuH 
of np|)r()bat,i()n or disnpi)ri>l)ati()n as I |)0- 
riisc alonjr. I will inako no ajjoloffy for 
pn'Hontinjr you with a fow uiiconiKJctcid 
llioiiirlitH tliat ()(!ciirrod to mc in my ro- 
pcatcil fiiTtisals of your poom. 1 want to 
show you tliat I have liononty (uioujjli to 
tell you what I take to bo truths, ovon 
wlii'U thoy arc not <piito on tlu! sido of 
ai)|)rohatiori ; and I do it iu tho lirm faith, 
that you iuivn ocpuil frroatnoHs of mind to 
hoar thoni with ploa«uro. 

T had latoly tho honour of a lottor from 
Jlr. IMooro, whoro ho Itdls mo that ho ha's 
6<'nt mo Homo books. Thoy arc not yot 
como to hand, but I hear thoy arc on the 
way. 

Wishinpf you all surcoRfl in your pro- 
pross in th(! path of fnuu; ; and tiuit you 
may ('fiuaJly oscapo tii(! dauircr ol" stiuu- 
bliuij tiiroufrh incautious spo((d, or losinir 
ground throuirh loitcrinir uv^\v.ct. 

I have tho honour to bo, &-c. 



No. LXXXII. 
FROM MISS WILLIAMS. 

Itk Jlugust, 1709. 
DEAR SIR, 

I no not lose a momont in rofurninj;^ 
yon my sincoro aoknowlodirmontH for your 
lottor, and your critioism on luy pocun, 
which is a vory (lattorinir pror)f that you 
have road it with attention. I think your 
objoctions aro porfocLly just, except in 
one instance. 



You have iiidood bf;on vory profuse of 
panofryric on my litth; pcrformanco. A 
niucli less portion of ap|)lauso from i/on 
would have boon pratifyirifr to mo; BJnoc? 
I think its value dopfuids onliroly upon 
the source from, wlionco it proncjodH — the 
incenso of praise, like other inoonso, is 
inoro frratoful from tiio (jualily than tho 
quantity of the odour. 

I hope you still cultivate the pleasures 



of poetry, which are procions, even indo- 
j)('Tidont of tho rowiirds of fame. I'orhiipH 
tho most vaiualdo property ol' poetry is 
its j)ower ot" disenirniiin^ tin; mind from 
worldly cares, and leadinpr th(! imii<rina- 
tion to th(! richest springs of intellectual 
•njoyment; since, how(!V(;r fr(!quoiU,ly life 
may \h\ cho(]uorod with ploomy sconoH, 
thos(! who truly lovt; the Mus(! can always 
fuid oiu' little path ad(U"nod with llowera 
and clio(;r(;(l by sunshine. 



No. LXXXin. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, 6lh Sept. 1789. 

DEAR MADAM, 

T iiAVK. mentioned, in my last, my 
appointment to tho Kxciso, and tlus l)irtii 
of litthi Fraidc, who, by the by, I trust 
will b(! no discredit to tho honourablo 
name of Wallace, as ho has a fmo manly 
countetianco, and a flpurc! that mifrht do 
credit to a little fellow two months older; 
nnd likfnviso an ((xcellent froot] tem|)or, 
tlioun-h, when h(! |)leasos, hi; has a pi|)e, 
only not cpiitc; so loud as the horn I hat his 
immortnl namesake bh-w as a, sifrnal to 
take out the pin of Stirling bridge. 

T had Romo time npo an cpiBtle, part 
poetic, and part proHiuc, from your [)oet- 
ess, Mrs. .T. Jiitth;, a very inptuiious biit 
modest coinposition. I should have writ- 
ton her, as she rofpiestiMl, but for tho hur- 
ry of this new busiru'ss. I have hoard of 
her anil her corn|)ositions in this country; 
and I am hap|)y to add, alwiiys to tho ho- 
nour of her character. 'J'he fact is, I 
know nctt vv('ll how to write to her: I 
should sit down to a shoe;! of pay)or that 
T knew not, how to stnin. I am no dab at 
flM(!-drawn leltc'r-wriling ; and except 
when prompted by frieri(lshi[) or gratitude, 
or, which Iinpf)ens oxlrr^mely rari-ly, in- 
spired by tho Muse ([ know not her name) 
that prosid(!S ovct epistolary writing, I sit 
down, when nocossitatfMl to write, aa I 
Wf»uld sit down to boat h(.'mp. 

Some parts of your letter of the ?Oth 
August stnu;k me with tho rnobt melan- 
choly concern for the state ol' your minj 
at present. 



146 



Would I could writ(> yon a letter of 
comfort! I would sit down to it with as 
niueli pleasure as I would to write an 
Kpir (>oiMn of my own composition that 
should e(]iuil the l/iiul. Relijrion, my 
dear friend, is the true comfort. A strontr 
persuasion in a future state of existence; 
a proposition so obviously probable, that, 
settiufj revelation aside, every nation and 
people, so far as investifjation has reached, 
for at h^ast near four thousand years, liave 
in soiAe mode or other firmly believed it. 
In vain would wc reason and pretend to 
doubt. . I have myself done so to a very 
dariuir pitch : but when 1 rellected that I 
was opposing the most ard(>nt wishes, 
and dm most darliniv hopes of t^ood men, 
and llyinsjf in the face of all human belief, 
in all aores, I was sliocked at my own con- 
duct. 

I iaiow not wliethcr 1 have ever sent 
you the followinir lines, or if you have 
ever seen them ; but it is one of my la- 
vourito quotations, which I keep con- 
stantly by mo in my progress through 
life, in the language of the book of Job, 

" Against tlio day of battle and of war" 

spoken of religion. 

'"Tis this, my friend, that strcakc oar morning briglit, 

'Tis ti'iis llmt !;il<l9 tlio liorrorof our Miglit. 

VVIii-n wcnltli forsiilifs us, and wlicn friends are few; 

When frliMuis are faitlilosa, or wlifu foes pursue; 

'Tis lliis that winds the blow, or stills the smart, 

Plsarnis alliiction, or ropola Ills dart ; 

Within tlic breast bids purest raptures rise, 

Bids smiling conscionco spread her cloudless skies." 

I have been very busy with Zcluco. 
The Doctor is so obliging as to request 
my opinion of it ; and 1 have been revolv- 
ing in my mind some kind of criticisms 
on novel-wnting, but it is a depth beyond 
mv research. 1 siiall, however, digest 
my thoughts on the subject as well as I 
can. Zcluco ia a most sterhng pcrform- 
aii ;e. 



I^ETTERS. 

If art It may he call'd in theo, 

Which nature's bounty, large and free, 

With |)lea,siire on I by breast dilfusos, 

Ami warms thy soul with all the Muses, 

Whether to laugh with easy grace, 

Thy numbers move the sage's face, 

Or bid the sotler passion rise, 

And ruthless souls with grief surprise, 

"I'is nature's voice distinctly felt, 

Through thee her organ, thus to melt. 



Farewell ! 
cvmnende ! 



Dicu, le hon Dieu,je votis 



No. LXXXIV. 
FROM DR. BLACKLOCK. 

Edinburs^h, ^Wi Aus:mf, 1789. 
T)f. All Rums, thou brother of my heart, 
Both for thy virtues and tiiy art ; 



Most anxiously I wish to know, 
Witii thee of late how matters go ; 
How keeps thy much-loved Joan liei 

health ? 
Wiiat j)roniises thy farm of wealth? 
Whether the muse persists to smile. 
And all thy anxious cares beguile? 
Whether bright fancy keeps alive ? 
And how thy darling infants thrive ? 

For me, with grief and sickness spent, 
Since I my journey homeward bent, 
Spirits depress'd no more I mourn. 
Rut vigour, life, and health return, 
No more to gloomy tlioughts a prey, 
I sleep all night, and live all day; 
Ry turns my book and friend enjoy. 
And thus my circling hours employ ! 
Happy while yet these hours remain 
If liurns could join the cheerful train. 
With wonted zeal, sincere and fervent, 
Salute once more his humble servant, 
TIIO. BLACKLOCK. 



No. LXXXV. 

TO DR. BLACKLOCK.- 
p. 81. 



-See Poems» 



No. LXXXVL 
TO R. GRAHAM, ESQ. OF FINTRY 
9th December, 1789. 

SIR, 

I HAVK a good while had a wish to 
trouble yoii with a letter, and iiad cer- 
,tainly done it ere now* — but for a hun)i- 
liating something that throws cold water 
on the resolution, as if one should say, 
" You have found Mr. Craham a very 
powerful and kind friend indeed ; and 
that interest he is so kindly taking in your 
concerns, you ought, by every thing in 
your power to keep alivo and cherish." 



LETTERS. 



M7 



Now thotirrli sincn God Iiufi tliniijrh* pro- 

Eor Id iimlu! one powerful and (uiollir-r 
clplusH, tlif! comicxion of oblitrcr niid 
obliged iH all fair; and Mioii<r|i niy bciiifr 
iiudiir your palronafrc! Ih fo iiid hifjiiiy lio- 
ii(inral)l(!, yrt, Sir, allow imo to lliiltcr 
inyst.'lf, that as a \)nt'.l and nn lioncst man, 
ynn first infcr<!Hli'd yonrsnif in my wcl- 
f;iro, and principally as such still, yon p(!r- 
init mo to approach you. 

I havr; fonnd thn oxciHO-bnuinoss fro on 
a C[ri'at dcN-il snioothor with mo than I ex- 
poctnd ; owirifr a jrood (h'al to ihi; fr(;in;- 
roiiH fri(!ti(lshi|) of Mr. Alitchcll, my col- 
lector, and the kind assist anco oi' Mr. 
]''indiat(T, my siipcirvisor. i darf! to ho 
linncst, and I foar no labour. Nor do I 
lind my hnrricd lifo frnr.iUy inimical "to 
my correspondence! with tho Mnsos. 
'J'h(!ir visits to mo, indeed, and I Ixjiievo 
to most of their acrpiaintanco, like the 
visits of {rood anfffilH, are short and far 
b(!twoen; but I meet them now and then 
ns I jop thronph the hills of Nithsdale, 
just as i ns(;d to do on the banks of Ayr. 
r take tho liberty to enclose yon a few 
bn{ratell(!s, all of them the productions 
of n)y leisure thoujjlitH in my excise 
rides. 



be s\icli a hard-rnn matcli in the wholo 
jreneral election.''' 



T am too liUle a man to Iia,V(! any po 
liticnl attaxdnneiits; I anuhufply indebted 
to, II nd hiive the warmest veneration for, 
individuals of both jjarties ; but a man 
who hiiH it in his power to be the father 
of a coimtry, and who * * * * 
is a chara(;ter that one cannot Rpeak of 
with jjationce. 

Sir .T. J. does " what man can do ;" but 

yet 1 doubt his (iite. 



If you know or have Pvor seen Captain 
Grose the antiquarian, you will enter into 
any humour that is in the verses on him. 
IN'rlmps you hav« seen them before, us 
I sent, them to a London newspaper. 
Tliouirh I dare say you have none of the 
fioleinn-leapiKt-and-covenant fire, which 
shone ho cons|)icuous in fiOrd Georfro 
Gordon and the Kilmarnock weavfTS, yet 
1 think ycMi must have heard of Dr. M'(!ill, 
one of the clerjryitum of Ayr, and his he- 
rd ical book. («od liel|) him, poor man! 
Tlioufrh he is one of the worthiest, as well 
as one of the abbrst of the whole priest- 
hood of the Kirk of Scotland, in (!very 
sense of that ambijrnous term, yet the 
poor Doctor and his numerous family are 
in imminent danpfer of Ixunpr thrown out 
to the mercy ot the winter-winds. The 
fnclosed ballad on that business is, T con- 
fess, too locjil, but I laupfhed myself at 
some coriceits in it, tlioufrb I am convin- 
ced in iTiy crmscience thn,t there arc a 
frood mniiy heavy stanzas in it too. 

The election ba'Iad, as you will see, 
alludes totliri presfuit canvass in our strinfif 
of borourrlis. I do not beli.*vc there will 
V 



No. LXXXVIL 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

ElHslandy \3lh Decrmhcr, 17f!9. 

Many thanks, dear Madam, for your 
sheetful of rhymes. Though at jiresent 
I am below tin; veriest prose, yet from 
you (ivery thinjr pleases. I am ^n-oaninij 
nnd(!r tlu; miseries of a diseased iktvoum 
system; asystom, th((Htat(;of which ismosl 
conducive to our hiippiness — or tin; most 
productive of our misery. For now near 
three vvcvkn I have been so ill with the 
nervous head-neiie, that I havebeen oblig- 
ed to ^'iveuj) for a time my (!Xcise-bor)ks, 
IxiiufT scarcely able to lift my head, much 
less to rid(! once a W(!ek over ten mnir 
|)arishes. What is man ? To-day in th'* 
luxuriance of health, oxultintr in the cn- 
joymruit of existfuicc; ; in a ff!W days, per- 
haps in a few hours, loaded with conscious 
[)ainful bein,fr, coimtinfr tlm tardy pace of 
the linirrTirifT moineiits by the; rei)erciis- 
siotis ofiiiifriiiHh, and rc^fusin^f or deiiii-d a 
comfort(!r, dny follows nifWit, and nifflit 
comes after day, only to curs*; him with 
lif(! which pfives him nopbutsure; and yet 
the awful, dark termination of that life is 
a Komethinpf at which In; recoils. 

" Toll iiH, yi; (Inad ; will iKiricofyoii In pity 

I)1h(:I(ih(! till! Koorct 

IV/iiit 'tin you arf, anil, wc mutt, nhnrlly be I 
'iIh tif) iiinllcr: 



A little limr! will tiiukc nn liwirn'd im yon ure. 

* 'I'hiMaMniliMtolhc n.ntiHt Cor llic tmronrli 'if l)'iti> 
frii'fl, hctwicn tlif Diiltc of (liiiM'iishwry'B iiitorfHl and 
tliut of Hix Juaiuv Juli'ialunu. E. 



148 



Can it bo possible, that whon T rosipn 
this frail, ioviirisli beini?, I shall still liiid 
mys(!lt' in coiiscions cxisti-ncc; ! Wiion th(! 
last gasp of at>'()iiy has aiiiioiiiiccd tliat 1 
am no more to tlioso that know mo, and 
thn tow who lovod nio; whon tho cold, 
stillbiKMl, unconscious, phaslly corso is n'.- 
.siivnod into tlu; cartli, to be tho prey of 
nnsiiflitly rt-ptilos, and to bocomo in time 
a trodden clod, shall I be yet warm in 
life, seeing and seen, enjoying and en- 
joyed? Ye venerable sages, and lioly 
(lamcns, is there probability in your con- 
jectnros, truth in your storic^s, of another 
world beyond death ; or, ari; tiioy all alilv(>, 
baseless visions, and liibricattMl tiibles? If 
there is anoliier lite, it nuist be oidy fjr 
the just, the benevolent, the amiable, and 
tlie iiumane: what a llattering idea, tlien, 
is a world to come! Would to (Jod I as 
tirmly believed it, as I ardently wish it ! 
There I should me(;t an aged ])arent, now 
at rest from tlie many butVetingsof an evil 
world, against which he so long and so 
bravely struggled. There should 1 meet 
the friend, the disinterest(Ml friend of my 
early life; the man who rejoiced to see 
mo, because ho lovod me and couhl serve 

me. Muir; thy weaknesses, were 

Ili(^ ab(<rrations of human nature, but thy 
heart glowed with every thing gtMicrous, 
manly and noble; and ii" ever emanation 
from the All-good IJeing animated a hu- 
man form, it is thine ! — Tlu^re should I, 
with sp(M>cIiless agony of raptur(\ again 
recognise my lost, my ov(!r dear Mary! 
whoso bosom was fraught with truth, lio- 
nonr, constancy, and love. 



LETTERS. 

nervous affections arc in fact diseases of 
the mind. I caimot reason, I cannot 
think ; and but to you 1 would not ven- 
ture to write any thing above an ord(!r to 
a cobbler. You have felt too nuich of the 
ills of life not to sym])athi'/.e with a dis- 
eased wretch, wlio is im|)aired more than 
half of any faculties he j)ossessed. Your 
goodness will excuse this distracted 
scrawl, which tho writer dare scarcely 
read, and which he would throw into tlie 
lire were he able to write any tiling bet- 
ter, or indeed any thing ut all. 



My IMnry, dour dcpiirlpd nlindo! 

W'lioii! is lliy pliico of lu'iivnily rcstt 
Biu'dl llimi lliy lovur hiwly laid ; 

Ilcui'st tliou the groiiMH tlint rend liis brriisl ? 



.(esns Christ, then amiablest of charac- 
ters ! I trust then art no impostor, and 
that tliy revelation of blissful scenes of 
existence beyond death and the grave, is 
not one of tlie many impositions which, 
tiuK^ aft(>r time, have Iioimi palnnMJ on 
(T(u1ulous mankind. I trust that in tlun; 
•'shall all tli(! families of the earth bo 
blessed," by being yet connec'ted together 
in a liettor world, where every tie that 
bound bcarl to li(>art in this state of ex- 
istouco, shall he, far beyond our present 
conceptions, more endearing. 

T am a good d(Nil incliiKvl to think with 
those who maintain, that what are called 



Rumour told me something of a son of 
yours who was returned from tho East (>r 
West-Indies. If you have gotten news 
of .fames or Anthony, it was cruel in yon 
not to let mo know ; as 1 jiromise yon on 
the sincerity of a man who is weary of 
otK" world and anxious about anotlior, 
that scarce any thing could give me »«o 
much pleasure ns to hoar of any good 
thing befalling my honoured friend. 

If yon have a minute's husiiro, take "O 
your ])en in \niy to Ic pauorc mismih/r. 

R. R. 



No. LXXXVITI. 
TO SIR JOHN SINCLAIR. 

SIR, 

TiiK following circumstance Ims, 1 
believe, bo(Mi omitted in IIk^ statistical ac- 
count transmitted to yon, of the parish of 
Dunscore, in Nithsdale. 1 beg leave to 
send it to yon, becanst? it is now, and may 
be useful. How far it is deserving of a 
|)laco in your painoiic publication, you 
are the best judge. 

To store the minds of the lower classes 
with useful knowledge is certainly of very 
grcMit importance, both to them as indi- 
viduals, and to society at large (living 
tluMn a turn for reading and riMloction, is 
giving t liem a source ol'innocent and laud- 
able amustMiient; and, bedsides, rais(>s them 
to a mori> dignified d<'gnM> in tlie scale of 
rationality, imiin^ssed with this idea, a 
jreutlcman in this invrish, RoluMt Riddel, 
I'lscj. of (^i Ion riddel, set on foot a species 
of circulating library, on a plan so simple 
ns to be practicabli! in any corner of the 
country; niid so iisc^ful as to deserve the 
notice of every country gentleman, who 



thtnlcs tlic improvoment of that part of liis 
own six-rics, whom chance has thrown in- 
to tlio Iiiunblo walks of tho peasant and 
the arti-tan, a matter wortliy of liis atten- 
tion. 

Mr. Riddel {jot a nnmbor of hid own 
tenants, and farmiiifr neifrhhonrs, to form 
themselv(!s into a socic^ty for tlie ])nrpoH0 
of liaviiifj a library amonjr themselves. 
'J'liey eiitt;red into a lejral enjifiifTement to 
abide by it for three years; with a savinjLr 
clansc or two, in case of a removal to a 
distance, or of d(!atli. lOach member, at 
liis entry, i)aid five shilliiifjjs; and Jit eacli 
of thi^ir meetinjTfl, which were held every 
fourth Siitiirday, sixpciu^e more. With 
their I'litry-moiiey, iiikI th(! crcMlit whi(;h 
tli(!y took on the faith of tln'ir future 
fiindfi, tiiey laid in a tolerabh; stock of 
hooks, at the roinmencemeiit. What au- 
thors they W(!re to purchase, was always 
decided by the iniijority. At every meet- 
\u<r, all the books, undc-r certiiin fim;s and 
forfeitures, by way of penalty, wcro. to he 
produced : and the uKMubc^rs had their 
choice of the volumes in rotation, lie 
whose name stood for that uifrlit first on 
th(! list, had his choice of what volume he 
pleased in the wholi; collection ; the s(;cond 
had his choice after the iirst ; tin; third af- 
ter the se(;ond ; and so on to the last. At 
next mecitiiifr, ho who iiad bettn first on 
the list at the ])rece(linfr iii(;f;tin<r was last 
at this; he who had bei^n second was first ; 
and so on throiipli tlie whole tliriM; yinirs 
At the expiration of tlie (inpiipement, tin 
hooks were sold by auction, but only 
nmonp th(! iiKsmbers themselves ; jiiid »;ach 
man had share of the common stock, in 
money or in books, as he chose to bo o 
purchaser or not. 

At the broiikinnf up of this little socie- 
ty, which was formed \ind(;r Mr. Riddel's 
patrona(i;e, what with benefactions of 
hooks from him, and what with their own 
purchases, they had collected totrolher 
upwards of one liundrcid and filly volumits. 
It will easily be {guessed, that a frood deal 
of trash would Ix; bouirht. Amonir tin; 
books, however, of this litth; libr.-i ry, wen;, 
Jlliiir's Srrwonn, Tinhirlsiin'x /fislori/ (if 
SidUfinrl, llumr'x ffisfiiri/ (if the Sl.ititrtx, 
Tfir Sprrtdtor, Id/rr, ./Iduent.urf.r, .Mirmr. 
],(iun'j,ri\ (Vntrrarr, .Man af Vfcliwx-, Man 
(if the ]V(irl(l^ Chri/sdl, Don (Jnixotic, Ja- 
srph JJndretrs, &,c. A peasant who can 
read and enjoy such hooks, is certainly a 
much s!ip(;rior beintr to his neighbour, who 
pi'rhaps s'alks beside his team, very little 



LETTERS. 149 

removed, except in shape, from tho brutca 
ho drives.* 

Wishinpr your patriotic exertions their 
so much-merited success, 

I am, Sir, your humble servant, 

Jl FKASJIJVT 



No. LXXXIX. 

TO CHARLES SITARPE. ESQ. 
OF IIODDAM. 

Under a fictitious Signature, enclosing a 
ballad, 1790, or I7!H. 

It is true. Sir, yon are a gentleman 
of rank and fortmu!, and I am a ])oor de- 
vil ; you area feather in the caj) of soci 
ety, and I am a very holmail in his shoes; 
yet I have tin; honour to belonir to tiio 
same family with you, and on that score I 
now address yon. You will perhaps sus- 
pect that I amffoinnr to claim aflinity with 
the anci(!nt and honourabb! house of"Kil- 
patrick : No, no. Sir: I cannot imhuid bo 
properly snid to helontf to any house, or 
(!ven any province or kinp<lom, as my mo- 
ther, who for many y(!ars was Kpf)use t,o a 
marfdiiuir r<!irim('iit, {(ave me into this bad 
world, aboard the jmcket bo!Lt,som(;wbere 
between Douiifrhadee and I'ortpalrick. IJy 
our common family, I m(;an, Sir, tbe fa- 
mily of the Muses. I am a fiddler iind a 
[)oet ; and you, I am told, play an cx(|ui- 

• ThiH letter Is dtrnctnd from llin tliird voliiiiic of 
Blr.lohii Sjiiclair'N SliilisllcH, p. MR.— It wnH cncloMcd 
to Sir Jiilin liy Mr. Hiddi:! IdfriHcIf, in tho followlti(! let- 
ter, iiIho printfd tlicre. 

" Hir .lolin, I nncloKo yoii a leltcr, wrlttitn by Mr 
ItiirriH, iiHiiii ndilltlon to the aciMiiiMt orniiiiHCore piirlMli. 
It coriliiiiiri uii iir.coiint of a Hiiiall lllirary wliic.li lie was 
NO (;(i()d (at my dcHire) aH to Het on loot, in tliu barony 
of Moiikianil, or I'rinr'H t'nrKe, in lliis parlHli. Ah its 
utility tian been fell, parlienlarly anions the youn(.;(T 
rJMKn of pc'ople, I Ijiirdi, that if a Hiniilar plan were es- 
lahllHlied hi the diU'eient parishes of Scotland, It would 
lend (jreally lo tlin spei'dy Iniproveinent of the lenanl- 
ry, tradeH people, mid work-peopWi. Mr. Itnrno waH hi» 
food aH lo lake the whole (:liar(!e of IIiIk Hniall concern. 
\\i' wai IrenNiirRr, lilirariaii, and cr.nhor, to iIiih lilile 
Hoc.iely, who will lony have a Rratefnl m^tiwc of his piil> 
''■■ vplrit and exertloiiH fur their linprovviiicnt and In* 
formation. 

I liavc thr honour to bfi, Sir .lohn, 
VouiH, MioHt Hiticerely, 

ISDIIKKT UIDDEii 

To f<ir J.ihn Simliir of Ulntcr, Hart. 



ISO 



LETTERS. 



Bite violin, and have a standard taste in 
(he licllcs Lcttres. Tlie other day, a 
brotlior catgut gave me a cliarming Scots 
air of your composition. If I was pleased 
with the tunc, I was in raptures witli the 
title you have given it ; and, taking up 
the idea, I have fspun it into three stanzas 
enclosed. Will you allow me. Sir, to 
prct^ent you them, as the dearest otlering 
that a misbegotten son of poverty and 
rhyme has to give ; 1 iiave a longing to 
take you by the hand and unburden my 
heart by saying — " Sir, 1 honour you as a 
man who supports the dignity of human 
nature, amid an age when frivolity and 
avarice have, between them, debased us 
below the brutes that perish !" But, 
alas. Sir ! to me you arc unapproachable. 
It is true, the Muses baptized me in Cas- 
talian streams, but the thougiitless gip- 
sies forgot to give me a Name. As the 
eex have served many a good fellow, the 
Nino have given me a great deal of plea- 
sure, but bewitching jades ! they have 
beggared me. Would they but spare me 
a little of their cast linen! were it only 
to put it in my power to say that I have 
a shirt on my back! But the idle wenches, 
like Solomon's lilies, " they toil not nei- 
ther do they spin;" So I must e'en con- 
tinue to tie my remnant of a cravat, like 
the hangman's rope, round my naked 
throat, and coax my galligaskins to keep 
together their many-coloured frngments. 
As to the aftair of shoes, I have given 
that up. — My pilgrimages in my ballad- 
trade from town to town, and on your 
stony-hearted turnpikes too, are whatnot 
even the hide of Job's Behemoth could 
bear. The coat on my back is no more : 
I shall not speak evil of tlie dead. It 
would be equally unhandsome and un- 
grateful to find fault with my old surtout, 
which so kindly supplies and conceals the 
want of that coat. My hat indeed is a 
great favourite; and though I got it lite- 
rally for an old song, I would not exchange 
it for the best beaver in Britain. I was, 
during several years, a kind of factotum 
servant to a country clergyman, where 1 
picked up a good many scraps of learning, 
particularly in some branches of the ma- 
thematics. Whenever I feel inclined to 
rest myself on my way, T take my seat 
under a hedge, laying my poetic wallet 
on my one side, and my fiddle-case on the 
other, ajid placing my hat between my 
legs, T can by means of its brim, or ra- 
tber brims, go tlirough the whole doctrine 
tf the Conic Sections. 

However. Sir, don't let me mislead you. 



as if I would interest your pity. Fortune 
has so much tbrsaken me, that she has 
taught me to live without her ; and, amid 
all my rags and poverty, I am as inde- 
pendent, and nuich more happy than a 
monarch of the world. According to the 
hackneyed metaphor, I value the several 
actors in the great drama of life, simply 
as tliey act their i)arts. I can look on a 
worthless fellow of a duke with unquali- 
fied contempt ; and can regard an lionest 
scavenger with sincere respect. As you, 
Sir, go through your roll with such dis- 
tinguislied merit, permit me to make one 
in the ciiorus of universal applause, and 
assure you that, with the highest respect, 
I have the honour to be, &,c 



No. XC. 

TO MR. GILBERT BURNS. 
Ellisland, IH/i January, 1790 

HEAR BROTHER, 

I MEAN to take advantage ofthe frank, 
though I have not, in my present frame of 
mind, much a])petite for exertion in \vri- 
ting. My nerves are in a **** state. I 
feel that horrid hypocondria pervading 
every atom of both bo<ly and soul. This 
farm has undone my enjoyment of myself. 
It is a ruinous atlair on all hands. But 
let it go to****! I'll fight it out and be oft" 
with it. 

Wo have gotten a set of very decent 
players here just now. 1 have seen them 
an evening or two. David Campbell, in 
Ayr, wrote to me by the manager of the 
company, a Mr. Sutherland, who is a man 
of apparent worth. On New- Year-day 
evening I gave him the following pro- 
logue,'- which he spouted to his audience 
with applause — 



I can no more, 
this **** farm, I 
ease. 



— If once I was clear of 
should respire more at 



No. XCI. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP 

Ellisland, 2i)th January, 1790. 
It has been owin^ to unremitting 
hurry of business that 1 nave not written 

* 'I'liis prologue is piiiitcd in the Poems, p. 82 



LETTERS. 



151 



to you, Madam, long ere now. My licaltli 
is {jrcatly better, and I now beoin once 
more to share in Katisfaction and enjoy- 
ment with the rest of my t'ellovv-creaturea. 

Many tlianks, my much esteemed friend, 
for your kind letters; but why will you 
make me run tlie risk of bein<r contemp- 
tible and mercenary in my own eyes ? 
When I pique myself on my indoj)endent 
spirit, I hope it is neither poetic license, 
nor poetic rant ; and I am so flattered 
with the honour you have done me, in 
makin<r me your compeer in friendship 
and friendly correspondence, that I can- 
not without pain, and a degree of morti- 
fication, be reminded of the real inequali- 
ty between our situations. 

Most sincerely do I rejoice with you, 
dear Madam, in the good news of Antho- 
ny. Not only your anxiety about his fate, 
but my own esteem for such a noble, 
warm-hearted, manly young fellow, in the 
little T had of his acquaintance, has inter- 
ested me deeply in his fortunes. 

Falconer, the unfortunate author of the 
Shipwreck, which you so mucii admire, is 
no more. After witnessing the dreadful 
catastrophe he so feelingly describes in 
his poem, and after weathering many hard 
gales of fortune, he went to the bottom 
with the Aurora frigate ! I forget what 
part of Scotlaiui had the honour of giving 
nim birth, but he was the son of obscurity 
and misfortune.* He was one of those 

* Falconer was in early lireaseabny, to use a word 
of Sllalli^peare, on board a man-of-war, in wliicli ca- 
pacity lie auractcd tlio noiicc of Campbell, llie author 
of the satire on Dr. JoIuibcii, entitled I.cxiphancs, then 
purser of the ship. Cairpbcll took him as his servant, 
and deli),'htcd in civing him instruction ; and when 
Falconer afterwards acquired celebrity, boasted of him 
as liis scholar. The Editor had this information from 
a surgeon of a man-of-war, in 1777, who knew both 
Canipliell and Falconer, and who himself perished soon 
after by shipwreck on the coast of America. 

Though the death of Falconer happened so lately aR 
1770 or 1771, yet in the biography prefixed by I)r. An- 
derson tdhis works, in thecomplclecditionof the Poc£« 
of Great llritaiit, it is said— " Of the family, birUi- 
place, and education of William Falconer, there are 
no memorials." On the authority already given, it 
may be mentioned, that he was a native of one of the 
towns on the coast of Fife : and that his paretils who 
nad suffered some misfortunes, removed to one of the 
tea ports of F.uglaiid, where they both died soon after, 
of an { (iidcHiic fever, leaving poor Falconer, tlien a 
boy, foilorn and destitute, in consequence of which 
he entered on board a man-of-war. These last cir 
C4mstanccs are, hov^uvcr less certain. E- 



daring adventurous spirits which Scotland, 
beyond any other country, is remarkable 
for producing. Little doe.s the fond mo- 
ther think, as she hangs delighted over 
the sweet little leech at her bosom, where 
the poor follow may hereafter wander, 
and what may be his fate. I remember 
a stanza in an old Scottish ballad, which 
notwithstanding its rude simplicity, speaks 
feelingly to the heart : 

" Little did my mother think, 

'I'liat day she cradled me. 
What laud I was to travel in, 

Or what death 1 should die !' 

Old Scottish songs are, you know, a 
favourite study and pursuit of mine; and 
now 1 am on that subject, allow me to 
give you two stanzas of another old simple 
iiallad, which I am sure will please you. 
The catastrophe of the piece is a poor 
ruined female lamenting her fate. She 
concludes with this pathetic wish : 

" O that my father had ne'er on me smil'd ; 

O that my mother had lui'er to me sung; 
O that my cradle had never been rock'd ; 

liut that I had died wlicn I was young ! 

O that the grave it were my bed ; 

My blaukcas were my windinjt sheet ; 
The clocks and the worms my bedfellows a* ; 

And O sae sound as I sliould sleep !" 

I do not remember in all my reading to 
have met with any thing more truly the 
language of misery than the exclamation 
in the last line. Misc^ry is like love ; to 
speak its language truly, the author must 
have felt it. 

I am every day expecting the doctor to 
give your little godson* the small-pox. 
They are rj/e in the country, and I trem- 
ble for his fate. By the way I cannot 
help congratulating you on his looks and 
spirit. Every person who sees him ac- 
knowledges him to be the finest, hand- 
somest child lie has ever seen. I am my- 
self delighted with the manly swell of his 
little chest, and a certain miniature dig- 
nity in the carriage of his head, and the 
glance of his fine black eye, which pro- 
mise the undaunted gallantry of an inde- 
pendent mind. 

I thought to have sent you some rhymes, 
but time forbids. I promise you ])oetry 
until you are tired of it, next time I have 
the lionour of assuring you how truly I 
am, &,c. 

* The bard's second son, Fiancls. E. 



152 LETTERS 

No. XCIT. 

FROM MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

2lith Jtviuari/, 17!)() 



Tn somo insitaiK'os it is rt'ckonod uii- 
pnrdoiialilo \o (jiiote any oiio's own wonln; 
j)iit tli(> value I liavo for your fritM\iisIii|), 
iiothiiiir can more truly or more elegantly 
express tlum 

'Tlmo Imt llio Imiiit'dsldii slri>ii(;iir iiinkos, 
As siriimiis tlifli iliiuimla iUtiiit woiir." 

Ilavinjr written to you twiee witliont 
lia\ iii;j lieard tVoni you, 1 am apt to lliink 
my letters have misearried. My conjee-' 
tnre is only IVan\ed upon the chaptt^r ot" 
neeideuts tnruiiijr up a;X'*'"'"*' ""'' "^ '' ''*'* 
ot'ien does, in the trivial, and, 1 may with 
trutii add, the more imporlaiit atl'airs of 
lil\> ; hut I sliall eontinue oeeasionally to 
inform yon what is ooin^ on amouir (lie 
cirele of your iVitMids in tliese i)arts. In 
these days i)f merriment, I havi^ frequent- 
ly luvird your name f)rorlitiiiie({ at the jo- 
vial board — under the roof of our hospi- 
table fri(Mul at Steuhouso-mills; there 
were no 

" Lliicri'liij; laoiUfiilH inimlicrcd witli caif." 

I saw your Address to the JVcic Vtiir, 
in the Dumfries .lournal. Of your pro- 
dueiious I shall say i\othin«jf ; hut my ae- 
«piaintanei' allege tiuit when your name 
is nuMUiontMl, wiiieh eviM-y man of oeh'hri- 
ty must know til'teu hapinms, I am the 
champion, the INIendo/.a, aoaiust all snarl- 
ing- eiilics and narrow-minded ri-ptiles, of 
wluMu (f /(■!(' on tliis plani>t do cniirl. 

With best oompliments to your wife, 
«nd hor black-eyed sister, I remain 

Yours, tfcc. 



No. XCllI. 

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

EUisland, ItlfA Fthntaiy, 17D0. 

T BK.C! your pardon, my d(>ar aud nuu'li 
ttllued friend, for writiuof to you on this 
very unfashionable, unsij^htly sheet — 

" My iHivfity Imi uol my v\ ill ronsoius." 



lint to make amends, since on modish 
l)ost I have none, except (int> poor widow- 
ed half-sheet ot" o;iit, which lii>s in my 
drawer amon<; my plebeian toolscappagfcs, 
like till" widow of a n\au oi" fasiiion, whom 
that uiii)i)lite scouudrtd, Neeessily, has 
driven tVon\ Uuri^undy and I'ine-apple, to 
a dish i)f IJohea, with tlie scandal-bearing 
in'.'p-matt> of a vili!i(Ti>-prii>st ; or a jjiasa 
of wiiisky-toddy, with tim ruby-nosed 
ytdvc-fellow of a foot-paddin<j; exciseuuin 
— I n\ake a vow to »>nclosi' this sheet-full 
of epistelary frafjmeuls in tluit my only 
scrap of gilt paper. 

1 am indeed your unworthy debtor foi 
thro" frieiully letters. I ought to have 
written to you long ere now, but it is a 
literal fact, 1 have scarcely a spare mo- 
ment. It is not that I irill not write to 
you ; Miss i>urnet is not more ilear to her 
guardian angel, nor his graco the DuUa 
„t\*i-i-**+** to the powers of ***** than 
my friend Cunningiiam to mo. It is not 
that I raiinot write to you; should you 
doubt it, take the following fragment 
which was intended for yon souu- timo 
ago, and be conviuceil that 1 can anlitht- 
size sentinuMit, and lininiwDliite piu'iods, 
as well as any coiner of pluase in the re- 
gions of ()hilology. 

Dircinher, 1789. 

IMV OKAIl CUINNINOUAM, 

Wiii-.KK are you .■' and what are you 
doing ? Can you be that son of levity who 
lakes up a friendship as ho takes up a 
fasiiion; or are yon, like sonui other of 
the worthiest fellows in the world, fho 
victim of indolence, laden with fetters of 
ever-increasing weight ? 

What strange beings wo nro! Sinco wo 
iuive a portiiui oi' conscious oxisttMice, 
otpially capable of enjoying pleasure, iuip- 
piuess, and rapture, or of sutlering pain, 
wreteluMlness, and u)ist>ry, it is surely 
worthy of an inquiry whether there bo 
not such a thing as a. science of lif(» , whe- 
ther method, ecououiy, and fertility of ex- 
p(>dieuts, be not applicable to enjoyment; 
aud whether there be not a want of dex- 
ttnity in pli>asnre which reiulers our littlo 
scantling of haiipiness still less; and ti 
lirofuseness aud intoxication in bliss, 
which leads to satiety, disgust, and selll 
abhorrence. There is not a doubt but 
that health, taliMits, character, decent 
competency, respectable friends, are real 



LETTERS. 



153 



lubstantial blessings ; and yot do we not 
daily see those wlio enjoy many or all of 
tlioso frood thinfTs, coiitrivi;, nolwitli- 
Blandiiifr, to be us nnliapijy as otliors to 
vvliorio lot few oftlicMu have laUen : I be- 
ll. 've one (Treat Kource of this nusfake or 
tiiiscoM(hict isowinjr to u certain stinndns, 
with us called andntion, whicli goads us 
u\) the hill of life, not as we afiC(;nd oth(;r 
oiuiniuices, for the laudable curiosity of 
viewiiicf an extended landscape, but rather 
for tlu! dishonest prid(! of looking down on 
others of our fellow-croaturrs, seemingly 
diminutive in humbler stations, &.c. &c. 



Sunday y lith February^ 1790. 
God help me ! I am now obliged to 



JOUl 

" Night to day, and Sunday to tlin week." 

If there be any truth in the orthodox faith 
of these churches, I am ***** past redemp- 
tion, and what is worse, ***** to all eter- 
nity. I am deeply read in Boston's Fovr- 
fold State, Mdmhal on Sdnctijication, Ou- 
Ikric's Trial of a Savins; Intcrfxt, Sic. ; 
but " tliere is no balm in Ciiload, there is 
no physician there," for me ; so I shall 
e'en turn Arminian, and trust to " sincere, 
though imperfect ohedience." 



Tue.iday, iOtfu 

Luckily for me T was prevented from 
the discussion of the knotty point at which 
1 had just made a full stop. All my fears 
and cares are of this world : if there is 
another, an honest man has nothing to 
fear from ic. I hate a man that wishes to 
be a Deist; but, I fear every fair, unpre- 
judiced inquirer must in some degree be 
a Sceptic. It is not that there are any 
very staggering arguments against the 
immortality of man ; but like electricity, 
phlogiston, &c. the subject is so involved 
in darkness, that we want data to go upon. 
One thing frightens me much : that we 
are to live for ever, seems too ffood news 
to he true. That we arc to enter into a 
new scene of existence, where exempt 
from want and pain, we shall enjoy our- 
selves and our friends without satiety or 
separation — how nnich should T be in- 
debtiid to any one who could fully assure 
me that this was certain. 



My time is once more expired. I will 
write to Mr. Cleghorn soon. God blesa 
hiui and all his conc(!rns. And may all 
tiie powers that preside over conviviality 
and friendship, be present with all tludr 
kindest inlluence, when the bearer of this, 
Mr. tSynie, and you meet! I wish I could 
also make one. — I think we should be * 



Finally, brethren, farewell ! Whatso- 
ever things are lovely, whatsoever things 
are gentle, whatsoever things "are chari- 
Uihln, whatsoever things arc kind, think 
on these things, and think on 

ROBERT BURNS. 



No. XCIV. 
TO MR. HILL. 

Ellisland, 2d March, 1790. 

At a late meeting of the Monkland 
Friendly Society, it was resolved to aug- 
ment their library by the following books, 
which you are to simd us as soon as pos- 
sible : — The .Mirror, The Lounger, Man 
of Feeling, Man of the World, (these, for 
my own sake, I wish to have by the firat 
carrier,) Knox's History of the Refor- 
mation; Rae's History of the Rebellion in 
1715; any good History of the Rebellion 
in 1745; a Display (f the Secession J) d 
and Testimony, by Mr. Gibb; Hcrvey's 
Meditations; lir^neriil^e's Thoughts; and 
another copy of Watson's Body of Divi- 
nity. 

I wrote to Mr. A. Masterton throe or 
four months ago, to pay some money he 
owed mo into your hands, and lately I 
wrote to you to the same purpose, but I 
have heard from neither one nor other of 
you. 

In addition to the books I commission- 
ed in my last, I want very much, Jin In- 
ilex to the Kxrise Laws, or an Abridgment 
of all the Statutes now in force relative to 
the Excise, by Jcdlinger Symons ; I want 
three copies of this book : if it is now to 
be had, ch(!ap or dear, get it for mo. An 
honest country neighbour of mine wants, 
too, Jl Family Rlble, the larger the bet- 
ter, but Becoud-handed, for he does not 



154 



LETTERS. 



chooso to '/wo above ton .sliill'mirfl for the 
book. 1 \v;uit likowiso for inysclf iis you 
can iiick tboin iii),noiH)ii(l-Iian(li'(lor clunip, 
co|)ios of Olinii/'.t Drmiuitic H'orkx, Jim 
.h»is()n'.s, i)n/ilc>i's, ("'o/iiirri'c'.v, M'ljrlirr- 
Icy's, / 7r.;iV)i/>7,'Vi'.v, (-iblierx, or uiiy Drit- 
vvtlir jrorh's of tbo more modern, .Mack- 
lin, Garrifh', Ftnilc, Colfiiiaii, or S/ivridaii. 
A pooil copy too, of J\h)lirrt\ in I'^rcncb, 
I nuicli want. Any otbor jiood drainalif* 
jinthors in tliat lanirnai^-o 1 want also, b\it 
comic antiiors cbiolly, thonjrb 1 siionld 
wisii t(» iuivo Racini\ Corncille, and /"o/- 
liire too. T am in no bnrry for all, or any 
of these; but if yon accidentally moot witli 
lliem very cheap, c[ot them for me. 

And now to (jnit the dry walk of bnsi- 
noss, how do yon do, my dear friiMid ? and 
how is Mrs. Hill ? I trust, if now ami then 
not so c/('i;7(»)//// handsome, at least as ami- 
able, and sinjjfs as divini^ly as over. My 
jrood wife, too, has a charmincf " wood- 
note wild;" now could we four 



T am otit of all pnlienre with (his vile 
world for one thinjr. Mankind are by na- 
ture bencvolei\t criMitures. E.\cept in a 
few scoundr(>lly instances, T do not think 
that avarice of the jjood thinjrs wo chance 
to have, is born with tis ; but wo are 
plac(Ml here amid so nmch naktMlness, and 
Inmnfor, and poverty, and want, that wo 
are und(>r a cursed neci>ssity of study inof 
selfishness, in order that wo may kxist! 
Still tiiere are, in every aije, a lew souls, 
that all lh(> wants and woes of this life 
cannot debase to scllishness, or oven to 
the necessary alloy of caution and pru-, 
dence. If ever 1 am in dano-er of vanity, 
it is when 1 conttMni)late myself on tiiis 
side of my disposition and character. Cod 
knows 1 am no saint; 1 have a whole host 
of tollies and sins to answer fi>r: but if I 
could, and I believe 1 do it as far as T can, 
1 wonld wipo away uU tears from all eyes. 
Adieu ! 



No. XCV 

TO MRS. DUNLOP 

Ellishtix!, 1PW( .'?/»•//, t70O, 

I iiAVF. just now, my ever-honoured 
fr'icnd, enjoyed a very Iiijrh Inxmy, in 
reading; a paper of the JA>tiiti;->r. You 



know my national i)rejudicos. I had of- 
ten read and adunred the Sprrlnlor, Jld- 
vrniuirr, Jidinblcr, and World; but still 
with a certain re<Trt^t, that tiiey w'cre so 
thoroui![hly and entirely lOuiHish. Alas ! 
havt! 1 often said to myself, what arc all 
the l)i)asted advantajjes which my conn- 
try reaps from the union, that can coun- 
t(Mbalancc the annihilation of her indo 
pendence, and oven her very name ! 1 of 
ten repeat that couplet of my favourite 
poet, Goldsmith — 

" SlHloa of iintivc lilx^rly possrssM, 
Tlio' voiy poor may yet lio vfiry blcss'd." 

Nothinrr can reconcile mo to the com- 
mon terms " Enp,Iisii ambassador, Eng- 
lish court," &.C. And 1 am out of all pa- 
titMico to SCO that etpiivocal charaet(>r, 
rfastiufxs, impeached by "the Connnonsot 
EiUofland." Tell me, my friend, is this weak 
prt'jndicc? I believe in my conscience such 
i<h"as as, "my count ry ; her independence; 
bin" honour; the illustrious nanu^s that 
mark the history of my native land;" «!L'C. 
I believe thes(\ amonnf your mm of the 
VH)rld,}\\on who in fact <vuide forth(> most 
part and provern o\ir world, are looked on 
as so many modiiications of wrouf^head- 
oduess. They know the use of bawlinor 
out such tiM-ms, to rouse or lead the rah- 
iii.r. ; but for th(>ir own private use; with 
almost all the <d)/r stntisiiirn that ever ox- 
istivl, or now exist, wiien they talk of rii^lit 
and wronjT, they only mean proper and 
improper, and their measure of conduct 
is, not what they ouo-jit, but what th(>y 
dare. For (lie truth of this I shall not 
ransack the history of nations, but appeal 
to one of the ablest judires of men, and 
biniself one of the ablest men (hat ever 
lived— tiio celebrated lOarl of Chcstcr- 
(ii>ld. Tn fact, a man who could thoroupfh- 
ly control his vices wIkmicvim* they inter- 
fered with his interests, and who could 
completely put on the appearance of every 
virtue as otien as it suited his purposi^s, 
is, on the Stanhopian plan, the prrfrrt 
■mnn : a man to lead nations. But are 
Cfreat abilities, complete without a flaw, 
and iiolished without a bliMuish, the stand- 
ard of hmnan excelliMie(> ? This is cer- 
tainly the staunch opinion of mm of the 
ivorld : but T call or honour, virtue, and 
worth to cfive the styjrian doctrine a loud 
nerrative! However, this nmst be allowed, 
that, if you abstract from nuin the idea of 
oxistonc(> beyond the p-rave, then the true 
measure of human conduct is proprr and 
improper: Virtue and vice as dispositions 



LETTERS. 



If.r. 



of tlio heart, aro, in that caHOtofHcarrdly 
tho Hiiiriu iiii|)()it luiil valiio t(» tlio world 
at Iiirt((% UH liiiririony and (liwcord in llio 
inoflidcdtioiiH of Hoiind ; luul a dtsliciitcj 
B<!tiHt) of honour, lilu! a nico car for uiUHic, 
tlioii)r|i it iiiay HomctiniiiH piv(! tlm poH- 
BCHHor an ocHlacy unknown to tiio rioarHfir 
nrf^ouiH of tho liord, yet, conHidcritif^ tho 
hainh pratirif^H and inharinonio jarn, in 
tiiis ill-tiiiii;d Htato of hoin^, it in oddn bnt 
tin; individual wonid he, iih liai)|)y, iind c;(!r- 
tainly woidd ho an irnich rospijntcd liy tho 
tnio jnd;ri;H of Hoci(;ty, aH it would then 
stanfi, without cithor a good carorajrood 
lioart. 

Yon must know T liavo jiist met with 
tin; ./'//'rror and /yoi/n^'vr lor tlio lir.st liini!, 
and I oiu (juil.o in rii,ptnr(!S with tlioin'; I 
Khonid h(> jrlad to havi; your opinion of 
bonio of tho pajxirH. Thoonf! I havojuKt 
road ij()un'j;i:r. No. 01, liaH coHt nio rnor(! 
hon(!fit toars than iiny thinpf I havo road 
of a loufj tiino. M'l\t;n/,io Ikih l)oon ciill- 
0(1 tho Addinon of tho ScoIh ; and, in my 
opinion, Addison would not In; iuirt at 
tho oouipiirisou. IfhohaHuot Aildison's 
o.\'(|uisit(! humour, ho aH cortainly oiitdoos 
liim in Iho tiuidiir and pathotic. TliH./t/a//. 
<}f I''irll7i!^, (hut I atri not oounH(d-l<!arnod 
in tho lawH of criticism,) I ostiuuito as tho 
first porforuuiiico in its kind I ovor saw. 
From what hook, mor.-il, or ovi'ti pious, 
will tho HUKcoi)tihlc yoMUfr mind rocoivo 
iniproHsions moro cori[ronial (o huimmity 
and kindnoss,fr(!norosity and honijvolonco; 
in slif)rt, moro of all that onnohloH tho 
soul to luirsfdl', or (Uidfiars lior to othorH — 
tiinri from tho Bimph;, affoctiuf^ liilo of 
poor Ilarloy ? 

Still, with all my admiration of M'Kon- 
y.io'ri writinirs, I do not know if tlniy aro 
tho (itiost r(!adinir for a yonnrr man who 
is about to sot out, as tho pliraso is, to 
m'iko liis way into lif(!. Do not you think, 
Madiiin, that amontr tho f(!W favourfnl of 
Ilcavfui in tlu; structuro of tluur iriinds 
(for such tlioro certainly aro,) tlioro may 
\>i: !i. purity, a t(uidcrnoss, a difftiity, an 
(•]('ir;\,i]r.('. of roul, wliicli aro of no nso, miy, 
in soiiK! dofrrfM!, ahsoliitoly disfpuilifyiufr 
for tho truly important hnsinoHH of mak- 
'\nir a man's way into lifo. If I am not 
rrnich mistaken, my jjiillant younj^' frionrl, 
A*""*** Ih very mur-li iindiir those discpiali- 
fioitirms; and for tin; yonnf,'' femahis of a 
family [ oould mtuitiori, well niiiy thr^y 
excite [)arontal solicitude ; for I, a com- 
mon ac(|uaintanco, or, an my vnnity will 
liavoit,an hunihlo frinnd, havo often trcni- 
Y 2 



hhvl for a turn of mind which may render 
thom (Muinontly happy — or poculiuriy nii- 
Borahlo ! 

T havoInMUimanul'actnririfT Homo vorsos 
lately; l)ut as I luivo frot th(! niost hurried 
HCiason of oxciso-huHimisw ov(T, I hope to 
liavo moro hjisuro to trauricriho any thinjjf 
that may hIiow how much I havo (ho ho 
nour to bo, Madam, yourw, &,c. 



No. XCVI. 
FROM MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

EdinhurfJih, '2,[>lh J\hi.y, I71!'J. 

MV DKAIl ItUllNH, 

I AW much indf'btod to yon for your 
last fri(!ndly, olefrniit opistb;, and it shall 
mako a i)art of tho vanity of ■mij rorn- 
po.iititni, to r(;t,ain your corrospondcjiico 
throufrh life. It was remarkable your in 
troducinp tin; nairio of Miss Ihirniit, at a 
time wIkuihIk! was in such ill h(!aitli : ami 
I nin sure it will ^^riovo yourfrentle heart, 
to h(!a,r of lior beiufr in tlio last staj^o of a 
consumption. Alas! tlia,t so much iioauty, 
iiino(teiioo, a,nd virtue, should bo nipjtod 
in t ho biuJ. JI(!rs was th(! smile ofchoer- 
fnlnoHH — of sensibility, not of alluicmont; 
and hor oloffanco of mannorH corrosj)ond- 
od with tho purity^ and elevation of Ijcr 
mind. 

TTow does your friendly musf; ? T am 
sure sh<! still retains her iilfect ion foryoii, 
and that you have; many of her favours in 
your possession, which I have not Hoen. 
I weary much to hoar from yon. 



I beseech you do not forget mc. 



T most sincoroly hope nil your roncorna 
in lifo proH[)er, and that your roof-tr(!0 (;n- 
joys tho blessing rif good Ii('a,Ith. All 
your friends herf; art; well, among whom, 
and not the liiml.^ is your ac(|unmtanco, 
('leghorn. As for myscdf, I am well, an 
far aH ******* will lot a man bo, but witjj 
those I am liappy. 



When you meet witli my very agrcca« 



Ii,6 

ble friend, J. Symo, ff\\v liim for me 
hearty squeeze, and bid (iod blcsa liim. 



LETTERS. 

or a cliaractcr sketched with uncommon 
prociaion. 



Is tliere any probability of your being 
eoon in Edinbur^fh ? 



No. XCVII. 
TO DR. MOORE. 

Dumfries, Excise-office, \AlhJuly, 1790. 

SIH, 

Com I NO into town tliia morning', to 
attend my duty in thisollice, it buinif col,- 
'ection-diiy, I mot with a gontlomiin who 
lollri me ho is on his way to London ; so 
I tiike the opportunity of writing to you, as 
franking is at present under a temporary 
death. I shall have some snatches of lei- 
sure through the day, amid our horrid busi- 
ness and bustle, and I shall improve them 
Qs well as I can ; but let my letter be as 
stupid as * * * *, as 
miscellaneous as a newspaper, as short as 
a himgry gracc-before-meat, or as long 
as a law paper in the Douglass cause ; as 
dl-speit as country .John's billet-doux, or 
as \msightly a scrawl as Betty JJyro- 
INTucker's answer to it — I hope, consider- 
mg circumstances, you will forgive it ; 
and, as it will put you to no expense of 
postage, I shall have the less reflection 
about it. 

I am sadly ungrateful in not returning 
you thanks for your most valuable present, 
y.tluro. In fact you are in some degree 
olamoable for my neglect. You were 
pleased to express a wish for my opinion 
of the work, which so tlattered me, that 
nothing less would serve my overweening 
fancy, than a formal criticism on the book. 
In fact, I have gravely planned a compa- 
rative view of you, Fielding, Richardson, 
and SmoUet, in your dill'erent qualities 
and merits as novel-writers. This, I own, 
betrays my ridiculous vanity, and T may 
probably never bring the business to bear ; 
but I au\ foiul of the spirit young Elihu 
shows in the book of .fob — " And I said, 
I will also declare my opinion." I liave 
quite disfigured my coi)y of the book with 
iny annotations. 1 never take it up with- 
out at the same time taking my jiencil, 
and marking with asterisms, parentheses, 
&c. wherever I meet with an original 
thought, a nervous remark on lift? and 
wanners, a remarkably well turned period 



Though I shall hardly think of fairly 
writing out my " Comparative View," I 
shall certainly trouble you with my re 
marks, such as they are. 

I have just received from my gentle- 
man, that horrid summons in the book 
of Revelation — " That time shall be no 
more !" 

The little colloction of sonnets have 
some charming poetry in them. W indeed 
1 am ind<;bted to the fair author for the 
book, and not, as 1 rather suspect,, to a 
ci'lcbrated author of the other sex, I 
should certainly have written to the lady, 
with my grateiVil acknowledgments, and 
my own ideas of the comparative excel- 
lence of her pieces. I would do this last 
not from any vanity of thinking that my 
remarks could be of much consequence to 
Mrs. Smith, but merely from my own 
feeling as an author, doing as I would be 
done by. 



No. XCVllL 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Uh Aug. 1790. 

HEAR MADAM, 

Aktku a long day's toil, plague, and 
care, I sit down to write to you. Ask me 
not why I have delayed it so long? It was 
owing to hurry, indolence, and fifty other 
things; in short, to any thing — but for- 
getfulness of /ft plus amiable de son seae. 
ijy the by, you are indebted your best 
courtesy to me for this last conqilimtMit, 
as 1 ])ay it frcun my sincere conviction of 
its truth — a quality rather rare in com- 
pliments of these grinning, bowing, scrap- 
ing times. 

Well, T hopewntingto yo^^ -will ease a 
little my troubled soul. Sorely has it 
becni bruised to-day ! A ei-devnnt friend 
of mine, and an intimate acquaintance of 
yours, has given my feelings a wound 
that I perceive will gangrene danger- 
ously ere it cure. He has wounded my 
pride ! 



M'/r'I'HHS. 



157 



N... XCIX. 
TO MR. ('IINNIN(;ilAM. 

Kllislanil, mil. Jhi:;nst, 17:i(). 

I''()»i(! I VI'. me, my Diicc ilciir, mid ever 
Hr.ir IVii'iul, my Hi-cmiiip iicj^Hif^riiri'. 
Ydii fimiot, HiL (lowii iiiul I'liiiry l.lio biiny 

III'.' I Ir.nl. 

I liiid down my fifooHn fniiflmr to liciil, 
my liniiiiH for mi M|)t. nimih!, mid liiul soiim 
llKiiifilitH ol' II. cniiiitiy (n'mimim lit. ii. I'li- 
iiiily cliristciiiii^jf ; ii liiidn on llin miir- 
l<i'l. diiy Inilorc licr mmrinjfi! ! * ''' 

* * '" n l.iivi'rii-k(-r[)(\r (i,l iiii 

• •li"<-linu (limirr ; iVc. 6/v, — ImiI. I.Im) rc- 
K'mliliiiii'c lliiil lulu my liiiKiy IkihI, iHtliiil. 
l)l!ick;fiiiird iiiiKcrciiiit, Siitiiii, wlio roiuiiH 
iilioiit lil<(! II r()iiriii;r lion, H('ckiM^',*mn7(- 
7/i;'' wlioiii lit) miiy di'voiir. llov\'ovi'r, 
(ossimI iilioiit n.H I mil, if I rliooHi? (iiiiil who 
would iiul. (dido.ir) 1(1 iiiiid down with 
I lie ('iiiiii{i('lMoi°iitli>iilioii llii! l)rii./,cii Ion II- 
<hilion of intcjriily. 1 niiiy rciir ii|) IIk! 
nn|M'ri-ilrii(;l,iirc oriiidrpciidciKM^mid, from 
ils diuin[r tnrict.H, liid didiiinco to llio 
Htoriiis of I'liti'. And in nol. t.lii.H ii. " con- 
Biimm.'il ion dcvonlly lo ito wIhIumI .'"' 

" Tliy Hjiliil, liirlipi'iiiliiiir, III Mii'Hliuri'; 

l.iiiil <ir III!' lloM-liriirt, mill i'ii|;li' I'yii < 
'J'liv Hlr|M I liilliiw Willi my liiiiiiiiii Imii', 

Niir Iii-imI Ihr rtnriii Hint IiiivvIn iiluiin lliii iiKy ! 

Arc nol. (licHo n<d)!(> vf'rstiH? 'I'licy (irn 
I III' introduction iA' Small it's ()<lr lit liulr- 
/ifiulriire : if yon liii.vc not. hc(!I1 tlin poem, 
I will HiTid it, to yon. Ifow wrclcluMi Ih 
tin- m;in tliiit Iiiintf.^ on Iiy tlic fiivonrH of 
till' fni'iil. To Hlirink from every diiriiily 
of miin, lit. tlic ii|)|»roii.cli of ii, lordly iiieci- 
of Hclf-conHC(|iicncc, wliomnid nil liis tin- 
sel (rliltcr mid Hliilely liinitntr is Imt, a 
creiilnr(\ formed iin tlioii iirt — mid pcr- 
Imps not. so well formed .-ih tlimi iirt — cnnw! 
into the worldii piiliiiir infimt, mm I, lion didHt, 
nnd miiKt (^o out, of it iiH ii.ll men imiHt, n 
«iukc(l corH(;.* 



• Tim prorrdlnn Irllnr rx|iliiliiii llii? frrlliiiiii iimlrr 
ivlii Ii iIiIh wiin wrlllni. 'rim ttlriiln of IiiiIIkiwiiiI In 
vrrllvii ifiwH (iti HoiiHi lliiii; liinunr In lliitNlyli; wlilili mn 
lljril w.iri Inn iipl lo IiiiIiiIkc, iiikI <i{ vvlilitli llin icailcr 
ijuk alriiiiily uuiMi lii> iiiiicll. K. 



No. C. 

I'UOIM 1)U,. in.ACKI.OCIv 

Niliiihiirrji; \sl Sr/,lnnhn\ 171)0. 
II ^w (l(ie:i my dear frieii(l,iiiiicli 1 laiiiMimh 

til hem, 
11 is fori line, reliit ioUH, mid nil t lint n ri! dcii r! 
With love of till) MiiiicH HO ntroii{r|y ntill 

fjiiiillcn, 
I memit tirin('i)iHtlc in vcrHc to linvc writ- 
ten, 
I Si 1 1 I'lomiiifeiiiid iiifirmily indolence llow:i, 
And lliis, miich 1 feiir will reslore im- to 

|il(ise. 
Anon to my hnsincHrf I \vinli to proceod, 
Dr. AnderHon [jiiidcH uml |irovoKt;H mu to 

Sliced, 
A iiimi of iiilcfnity, jMMiiiiH, mid vvmtli, 
Who soon II pcrformiince intends to set 

forth: 
A work miH(-elliincoiiH,e.\teiiMivc, mid fici^, 
Which will weekly iippenr by the miiiio 

of the /;/r, 
Of this from hiinsidf I enclose yon ii, ])l!in, 
And hope yon will t,'iv(! wind. HHsistunco 

yon cmi. 
Kntiuifrled with hiisinens, mid hniiiiled 

with cure, 
In which more or Iuhh Iiiimmi nntiire miiHt 

Nliaro, 
Some inomiuitH of leisure tin; Muses will 

cliiim, 
A siicrilico due to miiiisement mid fume. 
'I'lie IJee, wliiidi HUckH honey from every 

jriiy hlooiii, 
With some riiys of your /renins her work 

miiy illume, 
Whilst (he llower wIhwici! iier honey spoil 

tmieoiiHly flows, 
As friif^rmitiy HmcllH, and ua viy'rounlj 

yrowH. 

Now with kind {fratnliilioiiH 'tis tinio tc 

comdiide. 
And add, your piomotion is hero niider- 

hIooiI ; 
ThiiH frei! from I lie servile employ of ox- 

<Mse, Sir, 
We ho|ie soon to IiiMir yon commeiiee Sii- 

piTvisor ; 
Von then more at leiHiirn, nnd freo froiri 

cmitrtd, 
May iiidiili^'e ( Ik^ stronfr pnHsion that reifrnn 

in your soul ; 
Hilt I, feeble I, must (d iiiitiire /,'ive wny, 
Devof ed cold den I h's, mid Ioii(f evil y's prey. 
l''roni verses thoiiirli Inn^iiid my tlionjrhta 

must unbend, 
Tliou(fli still I r«'main yonr iifl'cctionate 

itielid, 

TIIO. BLACKLOCK. 



158 



LETTERS. 



No CI. 



EXTRACT OF A LETTER 

FROM MR. CUNNINGHAM. 
Edinburgh, \ith October, 1790. 

I i.ATF.i.Y received a letter from our 
friend U*****'"***, — what n cl;ariuin<r fol- 
low lost to society— born to proiit oxpec- 
tfitions — with s^iipcrior abilities, a pure 
heart, and untainted morals, liis fate in 
life has been hard indeed— still I am per- 
suided he is happy: not like the oallant, 
the svay Lothario, but in the simplicity of 
rnriiT enjoyment, unmixed with rep-ret at 
the remembrance of " tlic days of other 
years,"* 

1 saw Mr. Dunbar put under the cover 
of your newspaper IMr. Wood's poem on 
Tiiomson. This poem has surrgestcd an 
idea to nic which you alone are capable 
to oxecutc — a song adapted to each season 
of the year. The task is diflicult, but the 
theme is charminjr: should you succeed, 
I will undertake to prpt new music worthy 
of the subject. What a line liehl for 
your imagination ! nnd who is there alive 
can draw so many beauties from Nature 
and pastoral imagery as yourself? It is, 
by the way, surprising, that there does 
not exist, so far as T know, a proper i^ong 
for each season. Wo have songs on hunt- 
ing, fishing, skating, and one autumnal 
Bong, Harvest Home. As yonr Muse is 
neither spavined nor rusty, you may mount 
the hill of Parnassus, and return with a 
Boimet in your pocket for every season. 
For my suggestions, if I be rude, correct 
me ; if impertinent, chastise me ; if pre- 
suming, despise me. But if yon blend all 
my weaknesses, and pound out one grain 
of insincerity, then I am not thy 

Faithful Friend, &c. 



No. CII. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Kovemher, 1700. 

" As cold waters to a thirsty sonl, so is 
good news from a far country." 

• Tlio person here aMudcd to is Mr. S. who euRageci 
Uie Kditoriii this uiiiieitakiiig. See the Dedication. E. 



Fate has long owed mo a letter of good 
news from yon, in return for the many 
tidings of sorrow wliich I liave received. 
In this instance I most cordially obiiy the 
apostle — "Rejoice with tliem that do re 
joice," — for me to sing for joy, is no new 
tiling; but to jn-ench for joy, as I have 
done in tiic commencement of tliis epis- 
tle, is a pitcii of extravagant rapture to 
vvhicii I nuvcr rose before. 



I read yonr letter — I literally jumped 
for joy — How could such a mercurial 
creature as a poet hmipishly keep Iiis seat 
on the receipt of the best news from his 
best friend ? I seized my gilt-headed 
Wangee rod an instrument indisj^'usably 
necessary in my left hand, in the moment 
of inspiration and rapture ; and stride, 
stride — quick and quicker — out skipped 
I among tiic broomy banks of Nith, to 
muse over my joy by retail. To keep 
within tiie bounds of prose was impossi- 
ble. Mrs. Little's is a more elegant, but 
not a more sincere compliment, to the 
sweet little fellow, than I, extempore, al- 
most, poured out to iiim in the following 
verses. See Paetns, p. 74 — On the Birth 
of a Posthumous Child. 



I am much flattered by yonr approba- 
tion of my Tarn o'Shanlcr, which you ex- 
])ress in your former letter ; though, by 
the by, you load me in that said letter 
with accusations heavy and many; to all 
which I plead not fcuilti/ ! Your book is, 
I hear, on the road to reacli me. As to 
]n-inting of poetry, when you prepare it 
for the press, you have only to speli it 
ri^-ht, and place the capital letters pro- 
perly : as to the punctuation, the printers 
do that themselves. 



T have a copy of Tam o'Shanter ready 
to send you by the first opportunity: it is 
too heavy to send by post. 



I heard of Mr. Corbet lately. He, in 
consequence of your recommendation, is 
most zealous to serve me. Please favour 
me soon with an account of your good 
folks ; if INIrs. 11. is recovering, and the 
young gentleman doing well. 



LETTERS. 



159 



No. cm. 

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

Ellisland, 23d January, 1791. 

Many happy returns of the season to 
you, my dear friend ! As many of the 
good things of this life as is consistent 
with the usual mixture of good and evil 
in the cup of being I 

I have just finished a poem, which you 
will receive enclosed. It is my first es- 
say in the way of tales. 

I have for these several months been 
hammering at an elegy on the amiable 
and accomplished Miss Burnet. 1 have 
got, and can get no farther than the fol- 
lowing fragment, on which please give 
me your strictures. In all kinds of poetic 
composition I set great store by your opi- 
nion : but in sentimental verses, in the 
poetry of the heart, no Roman Catholic 
ever set more value on the infallibility of 
the Holy Father than I do on yours. 

I mean the introductory couplets as 
text verses.* 



Let me hear from you soon. Adieu ! 



No. CIV. 
TO MR. PETER HILL. 

nth January, 1791. 

Take these two guineas, and place 
them over against that ****** account of 
yours ! which has gagged my mouth these 
five or six months ! I can as little write 
good things as apologies to the man I owe 
money to. O the supreme curse of ma- 
king three guineas do the business of five ! 
Not all the labours of Hercules ; not all 
the Hebrews' three centuries of Egyptian 
bondage were such an insuperable busi- 
ness, such an ******** task ! Poverty ! 
thou half-sisterof death, thou cousin-ger- 

* Imiiii'ilintcly aftor this wers copind the first six 
glKnzas of the EiRgy given in p. 82, of the Poems. 



man of hell ! where shall I find force of 
execration cqtial to the amplitude of thy 
demerits ? Oppressed by tliec, the vene- 
rable ancient, grown hoary in the prac- 
tice of every virtue, laden with years and 
wretchedness, implores a little — little aid 
to support his existence from a stony- 
hearted son of Mammon, whose sun of 
prosperity never knew a cloud ; and is by 
him denied and insulted. Oppressed by 
thee, tiie man of sentiment, whose heart 
glows with independence, and melts with 
sensibility, inly pines under the neglect, 
or writhes in bitterness of soul under tlie 
contumely of arrogant, unfeeling wealth. 
Oppressed by thee, the son of genius, 
whose ill-starred ambition plants him at 
the tables of the fashionable and polite, 
must see in suffering silence his remark 
neglected, and his person despised, while 
shallow greatness, in his idiot attempts at 
wit, shall meet with countenance and ap- 
plause. Nor is it only the family of worth 
that have reason to complain of thee, the 
children of folly and vice, though in com 
mon with thee the offspring of evil, smart 
equally under thy rod. Owing to thee, 
the man of unfortimate disposition and 
neglected education, is condemned as a 
fool for his dissipation, despised and shun- 
ned as a needy wretch, when his follies, 
as usual, bring him to want ; and when 
his unprincipled necessities drive him to 
dishonest practices, he is abhorred as a 
miscreant, and perishes by the justice of 
his country. But far otherwise is the lot 
of the man of family and fortune. Hi/s 
early follies and extravagance are spirit 
and fire ; his consequent wants are the 
embarrassments of an honest fellow ; and 
when, to remedy the matter, he has gain 
ed a legal commission to plunder distant 
provinces, or massacre peaceful nations, 
he returns, perhaps, laden with the spoils 
of rapine and murder ; lives wicked and 
respected, and dies a ****** and a lord. 
Nay, worst of all, alas, for helpless wo- 
man ! the needy prostitute, who has shi- 
vered at the corner of the street, waiting 
to earn the wages of casual prostitution, is 
left neglected and insulted, ridden down by 
the chariot-wheels of the coronetcd Rip, 
hurrying on to the guilty assignation ; she 
who without the same necessities to plead, 
riots nightly in the same guilty trade. 

Well I Divines may say of it what they 
please, but execration is to the mind what 
phlebotomy is to the body, the vital sluices 
of both arc wondcrfiilly roli'ived by their 
respective evacuations. 



160 



LETTERS. 



No. CV. 



FROM A. F. TYTLER, ESQ. 



Edinburgh, \Qlh March, 1791. 

SCAR SIR, 

Ma. Hilt, yesterday put into my 
hands a sliect of Gi-ose's Anllquities, con- 
taining a poem of yonrs entitlcnl, Tarn 
o'Shanter, a tale. Tlie very hig-h plea- 
sure I have received from the perusal of 
this admirable piece, I feel, demands the 
warmest acknowledgments. Hill tells me 
he is to send off a packet for you this day ; 
I cannot resist, therefore, putting on pa- 
per what I must have told you in person, 
liad I met with you after the recent peru- 
sal of your tale, which is, that I feel I owe 
you a debt, which, if undiscliargcd, would 
reproach me with ingratitude. I have 
seldom in my life tasted of higher enjoy- 
ment from any work of genius, than T 
have received from this composition : and 
1 am much mistaken, if this poem alone, 
had you never written another syllable, 
would not have been suthcient to have 
transmitted your name down to posterity 
with high reputation. In the introducto- 
ry part, where you paint the character of 
your hero, and exhibit him at the ale- 
house ingle, with his tippling cronies, you 
have delineated nature with a humour and 
nnivcle that would do honour to Matthew 
Prior ; but when you describe the infer- 
nal orgies of the witches' sabbath, and 
the hellish scenery iu which they are ex- 
hibited, you display a power of imagina- 
tion that Shakspeare himself could not 
have exceeded. I know not that I have 
ever met with a picture of more horrible 
fancy than the following : 

" Coffins stood round lik,' open prrssps, 
That slmw'd the dead in lh>;ir last dresses; 
And hy some devilish cantrip slight, 
Each in his caaUl hand held a liijht." 

Hut when I came to the succeeding lines, 
my blood ran cold within me : 

" A knife, a father's throat had mangled, 
Whom his ain son of life bereft ; 
The i^ray hairs yet stuck to the hrft." 

And here, after the two following lines, 
*' Wi' inair o' horrible and awfu'," &c. the 
descriptive part might perhaps have been 
better closed, than the four lines which 
succeed, which, thougii good in them- 



selves, yet as they derive all their merit 
from the satire they contain, are here ra- 
ther misplaced among the circumstances 
of pure horror.* Tiie initiation of the 
young witch, is most happily described — 
the ctfect of her charms exhibited in the 
dance on Satan himself~the apostrophe, 
" Ah ! little thought thy reverend gran- 
nie!" — the transport of Turn, who for- 
gets his situation, and enters completely 
into the spirit of the scene, are all fea- 
tures of high merit in this excellent com- 
position. The only iault that it possess- 
es, is, that the winding up, or conclusion 
of the story, is not commensurate to the 
interest which is excited by the descrip- 
tive and characteristic painting of the 
preceding parts. The preparation is fine, 
but the result is not adequate. But for 
this, perhaps, you have a good apology — 
you stick to the popular tale. 

And now that I have got out my mind, 
and feel a little relieved of the weight ot 
that debt I owed you, let me end this de- 
sultory scroll, by an advice : you have 
proved your talent for a species of com- 
position in whicii but a very few of our 
own poets have succeeded — Go on — write 
more talcs in the same style — you will 
eclipse Prior and La Fontaine ; for with 
equal wit, equal power of numbers, and 
equal naivete of expression, you have a 
bolder, and more vigorous iinagination. 

I am, dear Sir, with much esteem, 

Yours, &c. 



No. CVL 



TO A. F. TYTLER, ESQ. 



Nothing less than the unfortunate 
accident 1 have mot with could have pre- 
vented my grateful acknowledgmerts for 
your letter. His own favourite poem, 
and that an essay in a walk of the muses 
entirely new to him, where consequent. y 
his hopes and fears were on the most 
anxious alarm for his success in the at- 
tempt : to have that poem so much ap- 
plauded by one of the first judges, was 
the most delicious vibration that ever 

* Our Tiard profiled by Mr Tytler's criticisms, anj 
expunged tlio four linos accordingly. 



LETTERS. 



IBl 



tiillcd along the heart-strings of a poor 
poet. However, Providence, to keep up 
the proper proportion of evil with the 
good, vvliich it seems is necessary in this 
sublunary state, tliought proper to check 
my exultation by a very serious misfor- 
tune. A day or two after I received your 
letter, my horse came down with me and 
broke my riglit arm. As this is the first 
service my arm has done me since its dis- 
aster, I find myself unable to do more than 
just in general terms to thank you for this 
additional instance of your patronage and 
fricndsiiip. As to the faults you detected 
in the piece, they are truly there : one of 
them, the hit at the lawyer and priest, I 
shall cut out : as to the falling off in the 
catastrophe, for the reason you justly ad- 
duce, it cannot easily be remedied. Your 
approbation. Sir, has given me such ad- 
ditional spirits to persevere in this spncies 
of pontic composition, that I am already 
revolving two or three stories in my fan- 
cy. If I can bring these floating ideas to 
bear any kind of embodied form, it will 
give me an additional opportunity of as- 
suring you how much I have the honour 
to b >, &c. 



No. CVII. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, 1th February, 1791. 

When I tell you. Madam, that by a 
fall not from my horse, but with my 
horse, I have been a cripple some time, 
and that this is tiie first day my arm and 
hand have been able to serve me in wri- 
ting, you will allow that it is too good an 
apology for my seemingly ungrateful si- 
lence. I am now getting better, and am 
able to rhyme a little, which im-plies some 
tolerable ease ; as I cannot think that the 
most poetic genius is able to compose on 
the rack. 

I do not remember if ever I mentioned 
to you my having an idea of composing an 
elegy on the late Miss Burnet of Mon- 
boddo. I had the honour of being pretty 
well arriuainted with her, and have sel- 
dom felt so much at the loss of an ac- 
quaintance, as when I heard that so ami- 
able and accomplished a piece of God's 
works was no more. I have as yet gone 
no farthnr thar. the following fragment, 
of wliich please let me have your opinion. 
You know that elegy is a subject so much 



exhausted, that any new idea on the busi- 
ness is not to be expected ; 'tis well if we 
can place an old idea in a new light. How 
far 1 have succeeded as to this last, you 
will judge from what follows : — 

[HcrefoUowcd the Elegy, as given in the 
Poems, p. 02, with this additional verse :) 

The parent's heart that nestled fond in thee, 
That lieart how sunlt, a prey to grief and care : 

So dccltM llie woo(il)ine sweet yon aged tree, 
So from it ravisii'd, leaves it bleak and bare. 



I have proceeded no further. 

» 
Your kind letter, with your kind remem- 
brance of your godson, came safe. This 
last. Madam, is scarcely what my pride 
can bear. As to the little fellow, he<is, 
partiality apart, the finest boy I have of a 
long time seen. He is now seventeen 
months old, has the small-pox and measles 
over, has cut several teeth, and yet never 
had a grain of doctor's drugs in his bow- 
els. 

I am truly happy to hear that the " R., 
tie floweret" is blooming so fresh and fair, 
and that the "mother plant" is rather re- 
covering her drooping head. Soon and 
well may her " cruel wounds" be healed ! 
I have written thus far with a good deal 
of difficulty. When I get a little abler, 
you shall hear farther from, 

Madam, yours, &.c. 



No. cvni. 

TO LADY W. M. CONSTABLE, 

Acknowledging a present of a valuable 
Snnjf-box, with ajine picture of Marv, 
Queen of Scots, on the Lid. 

MY LADY, 

NoTHtNG less than the unlucky ac- 
cident of having lately broken my right 
arm, could have prevented me, the mo- 
ment T re'ccived your Ladyship's elegant 
present by ATrs. Miller, from returning 
you my warmest and most grateful ac- 
knowledgments. I assure your Ladyship 
T shall set it apart ; the symbols of religion 
shall only be more sacred. In the mo- 
ment of poetic composition, the box shall 
be my inspiring genius. When I would 
breathe the comprehensive wish of beno« 



162 



LETTERS. 



volence for the happiness of others, I shall 
recolloct your Ladyship : when I would 
interest my fancy in tiic distresses inci- 
dent to humanity, I sliall remember tlie 
unfortunate Mary. 



No. CIX. 
TO MRS. GRAHAM, 



OF FINTRY. 



MADAM, 



Wnr.TiiKu it is that the story of onr 
Mary, Queen of Scots, has a peculiar ef- 
fect on the feeling's of a poet, or wlicther 
I have in the enclosed ballad succeeded 
beyond my usual poetic success, I know 
not ; but it has pleased me beyond any 
efjbrt of my muse for a good while past; 
on that account I enclose it particularly 
to you. It is true, the purity of my mo- 
tives may be suspected. I am already 

deeply indebted to Mr. G 's goodness ; 

and what, in the usual ways of men, is of 
infinitely greater importance, Mr. G. can 
do me service of the utmost importance 
in time to come. I was born a poor dog ; 
and however 1 may occasionally pick a 
better bone than I used to do, I know I 
must live and die poor; but I will indulge 
the flattering faith that my poetry will 
considerably outlive my poverty ; and, 
without any fustian aflectation of spirit, 
I can promise and affirm, that it must be 
no ordinary craving of the latter shall 
ever nuike me do any thing injurious to 
tlie honest fame of the former. What- 
ever may be my failings, for failings are a 
part of human nature, may they ever be 
those of a generous jieart and an inde- 
pendent mind ! It is no fault of mine that 
I was born to dependtmco ; nor is it Mr. 
G "s cliiefest praise tliat he can com- 
mand influence; but it is his merit to be- 
stow, not only with the kindness of a bro- 
ther, but with the politeness of a gentle- 
man ; and I trust it shall be mine to re- 
ceive with tliaukfulness, and remember 
with undiminished jrratitude. 



No. ex. 
FROM THE REV. G. BAIRD. 
London, i\lh FchrttarT/, 1791. 

SIR, 

I TuoTTni,!?, you willi tliis letter to in- 
form you tiiat I am \n hopes of being able 



very soon to bring to the press, a new 
edition (long since talked of) of Jilichacl 
Bruce' s Poems. Tiie profits of the edition 
are to go to his mother — a woman of eigh- 
ty years of age — poor and hcli)less. The 
poems are to be published by subscription; 
and it may be possible, I think, to make 
out a 2s. 6d. or 3s. volume, with the as- 
sistance of a few hitherto unpublished 
versos, which I have got from the mother 
of the poet. 

But the design I have in view in wri- 
ting to you, is not merely to inform you 
of these facts, it is to solicit the aid of your 
name and pen, in support of the scheme. 
The reputation of Bruce is already high 
with every reader of classical taste, and 
I shall be anxious to guard against tar- 
nishing his cliaracter, by allowing any 
new poems to appear that may lower it. 
For this purpose the MSS. I am in pos- 
session of, have been submitted to the re- 
vision of some whose critical talents I can 
trust to, and I mean still to submit them 
to others. 

May I beg to know, therefore, if you 
will take the trouble of perusing the MSS. 
— of giving your opinion, and suggesting 
what curtailments, alterations, or amend- 
ments, occur to you as advisable ? And 
will you allow us to let it be Known, that 
a few lines by you will be added to the 
volume ^ 

I know the extent of this request. It 
is bold to make it. But I have this con- 
solation, that though yon see it proper to 
refuse it, you will not blame me for liav- 
ing made it ; you will sec my apology in 
the motive. 

May I just add, that Michael Bruce ia 
one in whose company, from his past ap- 
pearance, you Wfuild not, I am convinced, 
blush to be foiuid ; and as I would submit 
every line of his that should now be pub- 
lished, to your own criticisms, you would 
be assured that nothing diM-ogatory, either 
to him or you, woj.ld ho admitted in that 
appearance he may make in future. 

You have already paid an honourable 
tribute to kindriMl genius, in Fergusson ; 
I fondly liope that the mother of Bruce 
will experience your patronage. 

T wish to have tlie subscription-papers 
circulated by the 1 1th of March, Bruce's 
birtlulav, which 1 understand some friends 
in Scotland talk this year of observing— 



8t that timo it will be resolved, T imagrine, 
to place a i)lain humble stone, over his 
grave. This at least T trust you will 
agree to do — to furnish, in a few couplets, 
an inscription for it. 



LETTERS. 163 

pose of clearing a little the vista of retro- 
spection. 



On these points may I solicit an answer 
as early as possible ? a short delay might 
disappoint us in procuring that relief to 
the mother, which is the object of the 
whole. 

You will be pleased to address for me 
under cover to the Duke of Athole, Lon- 
don. 



P. S. Have you ever seen an engrav- 
ing published here some time ago, from 
one of your poems, " O thmi pnle Orb;" 
If you have not, I shall have the pleasure 
of sending it to you. 



No. CXL 
TO THE REV. G. BAIRD. 

In answer to the foregoing. 

Why did you, my dear Sir, write to 
"j-i in such a hesitating style, on the busi- 
ness of poor Bruce? Don't I know, and 
have T not felt the many ills, the peculiar 
ills, that poetic flesh is heir to ? You shall 
have your choice of all the unpublished 
poems I have ; and had your letter had 
my direction so as to have reached me 
sooner (it only came to my hand this mo- 
ment) I should have directly put you out 
of suspense on the subject. I only ask 
that some prefatory advertisement in the 
book, as well as the subscription-bills may 
bear, that the publication is solely for the 
benefit of Bruce's mother. I would not 
put it in the power of ignorance to sur- 
mise, or malice to insinuate, that I clubbed 
a share in the work for mercenary motives. 
Nor need you give me credit for any re- 
markable generosity in my part of^ the 
business. I have such a host of pecca- 
dilloes, failings, follies, and backslidings 
(any body but myself might perhaps give 
gome of them a worse appellation,) that 
liV way of some balance, however trifling, 
m the account, 1 am fain to do any good 
that occurs in my very limited power to a 
fellow-crcaturc, jist for the selfish pur- 
Z 



No. cxn. 

TO DR. MOORE. 

EUisland, 28<A February, 1791. 

I DO not know, Sir, whether you are 
a subscriber to Grose^ s Jlnliquities of Scot- 
land. If you are, the enclosed poem will 
not be altogether new to you. Captain 
Grose did me the favour to send me a 
dozen copies of the proof-sheet, of which 
this is one. Should you have read the 
piece before, still this will answer the 
principal end I have in view ! it will give 
me another opportunity of thanking you 
for all your goodness to the rustic bard; 
and also of showing you, that the abilities 
you have been pleased to commend and 
patronize, are still employed in the way 
you wish. 

The Elegy on Captain Henderson is a 
tribute to the memory of a man I loved 
much. Poets have in this the same ad- 
vantage as Roman Catholics ; they can 
be of service to their friends after they 
have past that bourn where all other kind- 
ness ceases to be of any avail. Whe- 
ther, after all, either the one or the other 
be of any real service to the dead, is, I 
fear, very problematical : but I am sure 
they are highly gratifying to the living : 
and, as a very orthodox text, I forget 
where in Scripture, says, " whatsoever is 
not of faith is sin ;" so say I, whatsoever 
is not detrimental to society, and is of 
positive enjoyment, is of God, the giver 
of all good things, and ought to be receiv- 
ed and enjoyed by his creatures with 
thankful delight. As almost all my re- 
ligious tenets originate from my heart, I 
am wonderfully pleased with the idea, 
that I can still keep up a tender inter- 
course with the dearly beloved friend, or 
still more dearly beloved mistress, who is 
gone to the world of spirits. 

The ballad on Queen Mary was begun 
while I was busy with Percy's Reliques 
(f English Poetry. By the way, how 
mvich is every honest heart, which has a 
tincture of Caledonian prejudice, obliged 
to you for your glorious story of Bucha- 
nan and Targe ! 'Twas an unequivocal 



164 



LETTERS. 



proof of your loyal gallantry of soul, giv- 
ingTargethe victory. I should have been 
mortified to the ground if you had not. 



I have jnst read over, once more of 
many times, your Zeluco. I marked with 
my pencil, ao I went along, every passage 
that pleased me particularly above the 
rest ; and one, or two I think, which with 
humble deference, I am disposed to think 
unequal to the merits of the book. I have 
sometimes thought to transcribe these 
marked passages, or at least so much of 
them as to point where they are, and send 
them to you. Original strokes that 
strongly depict the human heart, is your 
and Fielding's province, beyond any other 
novelist I have ever perused. Richard- 
son indeed might perhaps be excepted ; 
but unhappily, his drmnatis personce are 
beings of some other world ; and however 
they may captivate the inexperienced ro- 
mantic fancy of a boy or girl, they will 
ever, in proportion as we have made hu- 
man nature our study, dissatisfy our riper 
minds. • 

As to my private concerns, I am going 
on, a mighty tax-gatherer before the 
Lord, and have lately had the interest to 
get myself ranked on the list of Excise as 
a supervisor I am not yet employed as 
such, but in a few years I shall fall into 
the file of suporvisorship by seniority. I 
have had an immense loss in the death of 
the Earl of Glencairn, the patron from 
whom all my fame and good fortune took 
its rise. Independent of my grateful at- 
tachment to him, which was indeed so 
strong that it pervaded my very soul, and 
was entwined with the thread of my ex- 
istence ; so soon as the prince's friends 
had got in, (and every dog, you know, 
has his day) my getting forward in the 
Excise would have been an easier busi- 
ness than otherwise it will be. Though 
this was a consummation devoutly to be 
wisliod, yet, thank Heaven, I can live and 
rhyme as I am ; and as to my bays, poor 
little fellows ! if I cannot place them on 
as high an elevation in life as I could wish, 
I rihall, if 1 am favoured so much of the 
Disposer of events as to see that period, 
fix them on as broad and independent a 
basis as possible. Among the many wise 
adages wiiich have been treasured up by 
our Scottish ancestors, lliis is one of the 
best. BrUer he. the hrad o' the rommonciUij 
as the tail &' the (gentry. 



But I am got on a subject, which, how- 
ever interesting to me, is of no manner of 
consequence to you : so I shall give you 
a short poem on the other page, and close 
this with assuring you how sincerely I 
have the honour to be yours, &.c. 



Written on the blank leaf of a book 
which I presented to a very young lady 
whom I had formerly characterized under 
the denomination of The Rosebud. See 
Poems, p. 71. 



No. CXIIL 
FROM DR. MOORE. 
London, 29th March, 1791. 

DEAR SIR, 

Your letter of the 28th of February 
I received only two days ago, and this 
day I liad the pleasure of waiting on the 
Rev. Mr. Baird, at the Duke of Athole's, 
who had been so obliging as to transmit 
it to me, with tiie printed verses on Jllloa 
Church, the Elegy on Captain Henderson, 
and the Epitaph. There are many poeti- 
cal beauties in the former; what 1 par- 
ticularly admire, are the three striking 
similes from — 

" Or like the snow-falls in the river," 

and the eight lines which begin with 

" By this time he was cross the ford, ' 

so exquisitely expressive of the supersti- 
tious impressions of the country. And 
the twenty-two lines from 

" Coffins stood round like open presses,"' 

which, in my opinion, are equal to tho in 
gredients of Shakspeare's cauldron in 
JIacbcth. 

As for the Elegy, the chief merit of it 
consists in the very graphical description 
of the objects belonging to the country in 
which the poet wriu-s, and which nono 
but a Scottish poet could iiave described 
and none but a real poet, and a close oh 
server of Nature could have so described. 



LETTERS. 



165 



There is something orinrinal, and to me 
tvondcrfully pleasing in the Epitaph. 

I remember you once hinted before, 
what you repeat in your last, that you 
had made some remarks on Zeluco on the 
margin. I should be very glad to see 
them, and regret you did not send them 
before the last edition, which is just pub- 
lished. Pray transcribe them for me ; I 
sincerely value your opinion very highly, 
and pray do not suppress one of those in 
which you censure the sentiment or expres- 
sion. Trust me it will break no squares 
between us — I am not akin to the bishop 
of Grenada. 

T must now mention what has been oi: 
my mind for some time : I cannot help 
thinking you imprudent, in scattering 
abroad so many copies of your verses. It 
is most natural to give a few to confiden- 
tial friends, particularly to those who are 
connected with the subject, or who are 
perhaps themselves the subject; but this 
ought to be done under promise not to 
give other copies. Of the poem you sent 
me on Queen Mary, I refused every so- 
licitation for copies, but I lately saw it in 
a newspaper. My motive for cautioning 
you on tills subject, is, that I wish to en- 
gage you to collect all your fugitive pieces, 
not already printed ; and, after they have 
been re-considered, and polished to the 
utmost of your power, I would have you 
publish them by another subscription : in 
promoting of which I will exert myself 
with pleasure. 

In your future compositions I wish you 
would use the modern English. You have 
shown your powers in Scottish sufficient- 
ly. Altliounrh in certain subjects it gives 
additional zest to the humour, yet it is 
lost to the P>nglish ; and why should you 
write only for a part of the island, when 
you can command the admiration of the 
whole I 

Tf you chance to write to my friend 
Mrs. Dunlop of Dunlop, I beg to he affec- 
tionately remembered to her. She must 
not judge of the warmth of my sentiments 
respecting her by the number of my let- 
ters ; I hardly ever write a line but on 
business ; and I do not know tiiat I should 
have scribbled all this to you, but for the 
business part, that is, to insti irate you to 
a new publication ; and to tell you, that 
when you have a sufficient number to 
make a volume, you should set your 



friends on getting subscriptions. I wish 
I could have a few hours' conversatioa 
with you — I have many things to say 
which I cannot write. If ever I go to 
Scotland, I will let you know, that you 
may meet me at your own house, or my 
friend Mrs. Hamilton, or both. 

Adieu, my dear Sir, &c. 



No. CXIV. 
TO THE REV. ARCH. ALISON. 

I Ulisland, near Dumfries, I4th Feb. 1791. 



You must, by this time, have set me 
down as one of the most ungrateful of 
men. You did me the honour to present 
me with a book which does honour to 
science and the intellectual powers of 
man, and I have not even so much as ac- 
knowledged the receipt of it. The fact 
is, you yourself are to blame for it. Flat- 
tered as I was by your telling me that you 
wished to have my opinion of the work, 
the old spiritual enemy of mankind, who 
knows well that vanity is one of the sins 
that most easily beset me, put it into my 
head to ponder over the performance with 
the look-out of a critic, and to draw up, 
forsooth, a deep-learned digest of stric- 
tures, on a composition, of which, in fact, 
until I read the book, I did not even know 
the first principles. I own. Sir, that, at 
first glance, several of your propositions 
startled me as paradoxical. That the 
martial clangor of a trumpet had some- 
thinff in it vastly more grand, heroic, and 
sublnno, than the twinglc-twangle of a 
Jew's harp : that the delicate flexure of a 
rose twiff, when the half-blown flower is 
heavy with the tears of the dawn, was in- 
finitely more beautiful and elegant than 
tlic upright stub of a burdock; and that 
from something innate and independent 
of all af^sociation of ideas ; — these I had 
set down«is irrefragable, orthodox truths, 
until perusing your book shook my faith. 
In short. Sir, except Euclid'n Elements of 
Geovxclrij, which T made a shift to unra- 
vel by my father's fire-side, in the winter 
evenings of the first season I held the 
plough, I never read a book which gav.e 
me such a quantum of information, and 
added so much to my stock of ideas, aa 
your " Essays on the Principles of Taste." 
One thing. Sir, you must forgive my men- 



160 ^^"TTERS. 

tioning as an uncommon merit in the work, 
I mean the language. To clothe abstract 
philosophy in elegance of style, sounds 
something like a contradiction in terms ; 
but you have convinced me that they are 
quite compatible. 

I enclose you some poetic bagatelles of 
my late composition. The one in print is 
my first essay in the way of telling a tale. 
I am, Sir, &c. 



No. CXV. 

Extract of a Letter 

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

12th March, 1791. 

If the foregoing piece be virorth your 
strictures, let me have them. For my own 
part, a thing that I have just composed al- 
ways appears through a double portion of 
that partial medium in which an author 
will ever view his own works. I believe, 
in general, novelty has something in it 
that inebriates the fancy, and not unfre- 
quently dissipates and fumes away like 
other intoxication, and leaves the poor 
patient, as usual, with an aching heart. 
A striking instance of this might be ad- 
duced in the revolution of many a hyme- 
neal honey-moon. But lest 1 sink into 
stupid prose, and so sacrilegiously intrude 
on the office of my parish priest, I shall 
fill up the page in my own way, and give 
you another song of my late composition, 
which will appear, perhaps, in Johnson'? 
work, as well as the former. 

You must know a beautiful Jacobite air 
ITiereHl never be peace till Jamie come- 
hame. When political combustion ceasen 
to be the object of princes and patriots, i( 
then, you know becomes the lawful prej 
of historians and poets.* 



Jf you like the air, and if the stanzr ' 
hit your fancy, you cannot imagine, mj 
dear friend, how much you would oblige 
me, if, by the charms of your delightfa 
Voice, you would give my honest effusior 
lo " the memory of joys that are past !' 

* Here followed a copy of the Sons printed in p. 9 
of tlie I'ocms " By von castle \va'," &.C. 



to the few friends whom you indulge m 
that pleasure. But I have scribbled on 
'till 1 hear the clock has intimated the 
near approach of 

" That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane." 

So, good night to you ! sound be your 
sleep, and delectable your dreams ! A-pro- 
pos, how do you like this thought in a bal- 
lad I have just now on the tapis ? 

I look to the west when I gae to rest, 
That happy my dreams and my slumbers may be ; 

For far in the west is he I lo'e best, 
The lad that is dear to my babie and me ! 



Good night, once more, and God blesa 
you I 



No. CXVI. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, 11th April, 1791. 

I AM once more able, my honoured 
friend, to return you, with my own hand, 
thanks for the many instances of your 
friendship, and particularly for your kind 
anxiety in this last disaster that my evil 
genius had in store for me. However, 
life is chequered — ^joy and sorrow — for on 
Saturday morning last, Mrs. Burns made 
me a present of a fine boy, rather stouter, 
but not so handsome as your godson was 
at his time of life. Indeed I look on your 
little name sake to be my chef cVce-uvre in 
iliat species of manufact\ire, as I look on 
Turn Shanter to be my standard perform- 
ance in the poetical line. 'Tis true both 
the one and the other discover a spice of 
roguish waggery that might, perhaps, be 
as well spared : but then they also show, 
in my opinion, a force of genius, and a 
finishing polish, that I despair of ever 
excelling. Mrs. Burns is getting stout 
again, and laid as lustily about her to-day 
at breakfast, as a reaper from the corn 
ridge. That is the peculiar privilege and 
blessing of our hale sprightly damsels, 
that are bred among the hai/ and heather. 
We cannot hope for that highly polished 
S mind, that charming delicacy of soul, 
' which is found among the female world in 

ithe more elevated stations of life, and 
which is certainly by far the most be- 
witching charm in the famous cestus of 



LETTERS. 



167 



Venus. It is, indeed, such an inestima- 
ble treasure, that where it can be had in 
its native heavenly purity, unstained by 
some one or other of the many shades of 
affectation, and unalloyed by some one or 
other of the many species of caprice, I 
declare to Heaven, I should think it cheap- 
ly purchased at the expense of every other 
earthly good ! But as this angelic crea- 
ture is, I am afraid, extremely rare in any 
6ta';ion and rank of life, and totally denied 
to such an humble one as mine : we 
meaner mortals must put up with the next 
rank of female excellence — as fine a figure 
and face we can produce as any rank of 
life whatever ; rustic, native grace; un- 
affected modesty, and unsullied purity ; 
nature's mother wit, and the rudiments of 
taste ; a simplicity of soul, unsuspicious 
of, because unacquainted with the crooked 
ways of a selfish, interested, disingenuous 
world ; and the dearest charm of all the 
rest, a yielding sweetness of disposition, 
and a generous warmth of heart, grateful 
for love on our part, and ardently glow- 
ing with a more than equal return ; these, 
with a healthy frame, a sound, vigorous 
constitution, which your higher ranks can 
scarcely ever hope to enjoy, are the 
charms of lovely woman in my humble 
walk of life. 



This is the greatest effort my hroken 
arm has yet made. Do let me hear, hy 
first post, how cher petit J\T(msieur comes 
on with his small-pox. May Almighty 
goodness preserve and restore him ! 



No. CXVIT. 
TO 



DEAR SIR, 

I AM exceedingly to blame in not 
writing you long ago ; but the truth is, 
that I am the most indolent of all human 
beings : and when I matriculate in the 
heraWs office, I intend that my support- 
ers shall be two sloths, my crest a slow- 
worm, and the motto, " Deil tak the fore- 
most!" So much by way of apology for 
not thanking you sooner for your kind 
execution of my commission. 

I would have sent you the poem: but 
somehow or other it found its way into 



the public papers, where you must have 
seen it. 



I am ever, dear Sir, yours sincerely, 
ROBERT BURNS. 



No. CXVIII. 
TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

11th June, 1791. 

Let me interest you, my dear Cun- 
ningham, in behalf of the gentleman who 
waits on you with this. He is a Mr. 
Clarke, of Moftat, principal school-mas- 
ter there, and is at present suffering se- 
verely under the *****'* of one or two 
powerful individuals of his employers. 
He is accused of harshness to * * * * that 
were placed under his care. God help 
the teacher, if a man of sensibility and 
genius, and such as my friend Clarke, 
when a booby father presents him with 
his booby son, and insists on lighting up 
the rays of science in a fellow's head whose 
skull is impervious and inaccessible by 
any other way than a positive fracture 
with a cudgel : a fellow whom, in fact, it 
savours of impiety to attempt making a 
scholar of, as he has been marked a block- 
head in the book of fate, at the Almighty 
fiat of his Creator. 

The patrons of Moffat school are t 
ministers, magistrates, and town-council 
of Edinburgh; and as the business comes 
now before them, let me beg my dearest 
friend to do every thing in his power to 
serve the interests of a man of genius and 
worth, and a man whom I particularly re- 
spect and esteem. You know some good 
fellows among the magistracy and council, 

but particularly you have much to say 
with a reverend gentleman, to whom you 
have the honour of being very nearly re- 
lated, and whom this country and age 
have had the honour to produce. I need 
not name the historian of Charles V.'' 
I tell him, through the medium of his ne- 
phew's influence, that Mr. Clarke is a 
gentleman who will not disgrace even his 
patronage. I know the merits of the 

* Dr. Robertson was uncle to Mr. Ciinningbam. S, 



168 



LETTERS. 



cause thoroughly, and say it, that my 
friend is falling a sacrifice to prejudiced 
ignorance, and ******. God help the 
children of depcnden-ce ! Hated and per- 
secuted by their enemies, and too often, 
alas I almost unexccptionably, received 
by their friends with disrespect and re- 
proach, under the thin disguise of cold 
civility and humiliating advice. O ! to 
be a sturdy savage, stalking in the pride 
of his independence, amid the solitary 
wilds of his deserts; rather than in civi- 
lized life ; helplessly to tremble for a sub- 
sistence, precarious as the caprice of a 
fellow-creature ! Every man has his vir- 
tues, and no man is without his failings; 
and curse on that privileged plain-dealing 
of friendship, which in the hour of my 
calamity caimot roach forth the helping 
hand, without at the same time pointing 
out those failings, and apportioning them 
their share in procuring my present dis- 
tress. My friends, for such the world 
calls ye, and such ye tliiuk yourselves to 
be, pass by my virtues if you please, but 
do, also, spare my follies: the first will 
witness in my breast for themselves, and 
the last will give pain enough to the in- 
genuous mind without you. And since 
deviating more or less from the paths of 
propriety and rectitude must be incident 
to human nature, do thou. Fortune put it 
in my power, always from myself, and of 
myself, to bear the consequences of those 
errors ! I do not want to be independent 
that I may sin, but I want to be indepen- 
dent in my sinning. 

To return, in this rambling letter, to 
the subject I set out with, let mo recom- 
mend my friend, Mr. Clarke, to your ac- 
quaintance and good offices ; his worth 
entitles him to the one, and liis gratitude 
will merit the other. I long much to hear 
from you — Adieu ! 



No. CXIX. 
FROM THE EARL OF BUCHAN. 

Dnjlnu'i^hAhhcy, Xllh June, 1791. 

Lord BacriAD h;is the pleasure to in- 
vite ]\Ir. Burns to make one at the coro- 
nation of the bust of Thomson, on Ed- 
man Hill, on the '22d of September: for 
which day, perhaps, his nmse may inspire 



an ode suited to the occasion. Suppose 
Mr. Burns should, leaving the Nith, go 
across the country, and meet the Tweod 
at the nearest point from his farm — and, 
wandering along the pastoral banks of 
Tliomson's pure parent stream, catch in- 
spiration on the devious walk, till he finds 
Lord Buchan sitting on the ruins of Dry- 
burgh. There the commendator will give 
him a hearty welcome, and try to light 
his lamp at the pure flame of native ge- 
nius upon the altar of Caledonian virtue. 
This poetical perambulation of the Tweed, 
is a thought of the late Sir Gilbert Elliot's 
and of Ijord Minto's, followed out by his 
accomplished grandson, the present Sir 
Gilbert, who having been with Lord Bu- 
chan lately, the project was renewed, and 
will, they hope, be executed in the man- 
ner proposed. 



No. CXX. 



TO THE EARL OF BUCHAN. 



MY LORD, 

Lanouagk sinks under the ardour of 
my feelings when I would thank your 
Jjordship for the honour you have done 
me in inviting me to make one at the co- 
roiuition of the bust of Thomson. In my 
first enthusiasm in reading the card you 
did me the honour to write to me, I over- 
looked every obstacle, and determined to 
go ; but I fear it will not be in my power. 
A week or two's absence, in the very 
middle of my harvest is what I much doubt 
I dare not venture on. 



Your Lordship hints at an ode for the 
occasion : b\it who could write after Col- 
lins ? I read over his verses to the me- 
mory of Thomson, and despaired. — I got, 
indeed, to the length of three or four 
stanzas, in the way of address to the shade 
of the bard, on crowning his bust. I shall 
trouble your Lordship with the subjoined 
copy of them, which, T am afraid, will be 
but too convincing a ])roof iiow unequal 
I am to the task. However, it affords 
me an opportunity of approaching youi 
liordship, and declaring how sincerelj 
and frratefuUy I have tlie honour to be. &.c» 



LETTERS. 



16? 



No. CXXI. 
FROM THE SAME. 
Dryburgh Abbey, IGlh Septembcry 1791- 

SIR, 

Your address to the shade of Thom- 
son has been well received bythepubhc; 
and though I sliould disapprove of yonr 
allowing Pegasus to ridowitli you offthe 
Hold of your honourable and useful pro- 
fession, yet I cannot resist an impiilse 
which I feel at this moment to suggest to 
vour Muse, Harvest Home, as an excel- 
lent subject for her grateful song, in which 
the peculiar aspect and manniirs of our 
country might furnish an excellent por- 
trait and landscape of Scotland, for the 
employment of happy moments of leisure 
and recess from your more important oc- 
cupations. 



Your TTalfowpen, and Saturdaij J\ri<^h(, 
will remain to distant posterity as inter- 
esting picturesof rural innocence and hap- 
piness in your native coimtry, and were 
happily written in the dialect of the peo- 
])lo ; but IIarte.it Home, being suited to 
descriptive poetry, except, where collo- 
quial, may escape the disguise of a dia- 
lect which admits of no elegance or dig- 
nity of expression. Without the assist- 
ance of any god or goddess, and without 
the invocation of any foreign Muse, you 
may convey in epistolary form the de- 
scription of a scene so gladdening and 
picturesque, w'ith all the concomitant lo- 
cal position, landscape and costume ; con- 
trasting the peace, improvement, and hap- 
piness of the borders of the once hostile 
nations of Britain, with their former op- 
pression and misery ; and showing, in 
lively and beautiful colours, the beauties 
and joys of a rural life. And as the un- 
vitiated heart is naturally disposed to 
overflow with gratitude in the moment of 
prosperity, such a subject would furnish 
you with an amiable opportunity of per- 
petuating the names of Glencairn, Miller, 
and your other eminent benefactors ; 
whicn, from what I know of your spirit, 
und have seen of your poems and hitters, 
will not deviate from the chastity of praise 
that is so uniformly united to true taste 
and genius, 

I am Sir, &.c. 



No. CXXII. 
TO LADY E. CUNNINGHAM. 

MY I.ADY, 

I WOULD, as usual, have availed my- 
self of the privilege your goodness has al- 
lowed me, of sending you any thing I 
compose in my poetical way ; but as I 
had resolved, so soon as the shock of my 
irreparable loss would allow me, to pay 
a tribute to my late benefactor, I deter- 
mined to make that the first piece I should 
do myself the honour of sending you. 
Had the wing of my fancy been equal to 
the ardour of my heart, the enclosed had 
been nnich more worthy your perusal : as 
it is, 1 beg leave to lay it at your Lady- 
ship's feet. As all the world knows my 
obligations to the Earl of Glencairn, f 
would wish to show as openly that my 
heart glows, and shall ever glow with the 
most grateful sense and remembrance of 
his Lordship's goodness. The sables I 
did myself the honour to wear to his Lord- 
ship's memory, were not the " mockery of 
wo." Nor shall my gratitude perish with 
me ! — If, among my children, I shall have 
a son that has a heart, he shall hand it 
down to his child as a family honour, and 
a family debt, that my dearest existence I 
owe to tbc noble house of Glencairn ! 

I was about to sny, my Lady, that if 
you think the poem may venture to see 
the ligiit, I would, in some way or other, 
cive it to the world * 



No. CXXIII 
TO MR. AINSLIE 



MY PEAU AINSLIE, 

Can yon minister to a mind diseased? 
Can you, amid the horrors of penitence, 
regret, remorse, lieadache, nausea, and 

all tne rest of the d d hounds of hell, 

that beset a poor wretch wlio has beeu 
guilty of the sin of drunkenness — can you 
speak peace to a troubled soul : 

♦ The poem enclosed is pulillshed,— Pee "The La 
mcnt for James Eart of (jlciicairn." Poems, p. CO 



170 



LETTERS. 



Jliserable perdu that I am ! I have tried 
every thing that used to amuse me, but 
in vain : here must I sit a monument of 
the vengeance laid up in store for the 
vi^icked, slowly counting every check of 
the clock as it slowly — slowly, numbers 
over these lazy scoundrels of hours, who 

d d them, are ranked up before me, 

every one at his neighbour's backside, and 
every one with a burden of anguish on his 
back, to pour on my devoted head — and 
there is none to pity me. My wife scolds 
me ! my business torments me, and my 
sins come staring me in the face, every 
one telling a more bitter tale than his fel- 
low. — When I tell you even * * * has 
lost its power to please, you will guess, 
something of my hell within, and all 
around me. — I began Elibanks and Eli- 
braes, but the stanzas fell unenjoyed and 
unfinished from my listless tongue ; at 
last I luckily thought of reading over an 
old letter of yours that lay by me in my 
book-case, and I felt something, for the 
first time since I opened my eyes, of plea- 
surable existence. — Well — I begin to 
breathe a Uttle, since I began to write 
you. How are you? and what are you 
"doing ? How goes Law ? A propos, for 
connexion's sake, do not address to me 
supervisor, for that is an honour I cannot 
pretend to — I am on the list, as we call it, 
for a supervisor, and will be called out by 
and by to act as one : but at present I 
am a simple ganger, though t'other day 
I got an appointment to an excise division 
of £25 per ann. better than the rest. 
My present income, down money, is £70 
per ann. 



1 have one or two good fellows here 
whom you would be glad to know. 



No. CXXIV. 



FROM SIR JOHN WHITEFOORD. 

jYcar J\TayboIe,^6th October, 1791. 

SIR, 

A JCEPT of my thanks for your favour, 
with tne Lanimt on the death of my much- 
esteemed friend, and your worthy patron, 
the perusal of which pleased and affected 



me much. The lines addressed to mo 
are very flattering. 

I have always thought it most natural 
to suppose (and a strong argument in fa- 
vour of a future existence) that when we 
see an honourable and virtuous man la- 
bouring imder bodily infirmities, and op- 
pressed by the frowns of fortune in this 
world, that there was a happier state be- 
yond the grave ; where that worth and 
honour, which were neglected here, would 
meet with their just reward; and where 
temporal misfortunes would receive an 
eternal recompense. Let us cherish this 
hope for our departed friend, and mode- 
rate our grief for that loss we have sus- 
tained, knowing that he cannot return to 
us, but we may go to him. 

Remember me to your wife ; and with 
every good wish for the prosperity of 
you and your family, believe me at all 
times, 

Your most sincere friend, 

JOHN WHITEFOORD 



No. CXXV. 
FROM A. F. TYTLER, ESQ. 
Edinburgh, 21th JVovember, 1791 

DEAR SIR, 

You have much reason to blame me 
for neglecting till now to acknowledge 
the receipt of a most agreeable packet, 
containing The Whistle, a ballad : and 
The Lament ; which reached me about 
six weeks ago in London, from whence I 
am just returned. Your letter was for- 
warded to me there from Edinburgh, 
where, as I observed by the date, it had 
lain for some days. This was an addi- 
tional reason for me to have answered it 
immediately on receiving it ; but the truth 
was, the bustle of business, engagements, 
and confusion of one kind or another, in 
which I found myself immersed all the 
time I was in London, absolutely put it 
out of my power. But to have done with 
apolog-ies, let me now endeavour to prove 
myself in some degree deserving of the 
very flattering compliment you pay me, 
by givinir vou at least a frank and candid, 
if it snould not be a judicious, criticism on 
the poems you sent me. 



I.ETTERS. 



171 



The ballad of The JFhislle is, in my 
opinion truly excellent. The old tradi- 
tion wliicii you have taken up is the best 
adapted for a Bacclianalian composition 
of any I ever met with, and you liave done 
it full justice. In the tirst place, the 
strokes of wit arise naturally from the 
eubject, and are uncommonly happy. For 
example, 

" The bamls grew the tighter the more they were wet, 
"Cyiuliia hintt'cl he'd find Iheiu next morn." 
" Tho' Fate said — a liero shonid perisi) in liglit ; 
So up rose briglit Phoebus, — and down fell the knight." 

In the next place, you are singularly hap- 
py in the discrimination of your heroes, 
and in giving each the sentiments and lan- 
guage suitable to his character. And, 
lastly, you have much merit in the deli- 
cacy of the panegyric which you have 
:;ontrived to throw on each of the dra- 
matis personce, perfectly appropriate to his 
character. The coinpliment to Sir Ro- 
bert, the blunt soldier, is peculiarly fine. 
In short, this composition, in my opinion, 
does you great honour, and I see not a 
line or word in it which I could wish to 
be altered. 

As to the Lament, T suspect from some 
expressions in your letter to me that you 
are more doubtful with respect to the 
merits of this piece than of the other ; 
and T own I think you have reason ; for 
although it contains some beautiful stan- 
zas, as the first, " The wind blew hollow," 
&c. ; the fifth, " Ye scatter'd birds ;" the 
thirteenth, " Awake thy last sad voice," 
&c. ; yet it appears to me faulty as a 
whole, and inferior to several of those 
you have already published in the same 
strain. My principal objection lies against 
the plan of the piece. I think it was un- 
necessary and improper to put the lamen- 
tation in the mouth of a fictitious charac- 
ter, an a2:ed hard. — It had been mucli bet- 
ter to have lamented your patron in your 
own person, to have expressed your ge- 
nuine feelings for the loss, and to have 
epoken the language of nature, rather 
than that of fiction, on the subject. Com- 
pare this with your poem of the same title 
in your printed volume, which begins, O 
thou pale Orb ; and observe wliat it is that 
forms tlie charm of that composition. It 
is that it speaks the language of truth and 
of nature. The change is, in my opinion 
injudicious too in this respect, that an 
aged bard lias much less need of a patron 
and a protoci.ni than a ijnngonu, I have 
Z 2 



thus given you, with much freedom, my 
opinion of both the pieces. I should 
have made a very ill return to the coni" 
pliment you paid mc, if I had given you 
any other than my genuine sentiments. 

It will give me great pleasure to hear 
from you when you find leisure ; and I 
beg you will believe me ever, dear Sir^ 
yours, &.C. 



No. CXXVI. 

TO MISS DAVIES. 

It is impossible. Madam, that the gene- 
rous warmth and angelic purity of your 
youthful mind can have any idea of that 
moral disease under which I unhappily 
m.ust rank as the chief of sinners ; I mean 
a turpitude of the moral powers, that may 
be called a lethargy of conscience — In 
vain Remorse rears her horrent crest, and 
rouses all her snakes : beneath the deadly 
fixed eye and leaden hand of Indolence, 
their wildest ire is charmed into the tor- 
por of the bat, slumbering out the rigours 
of winter in the chink of a ruiyed wall 
Nothing less. Madam, could have made 
me so long neglect your obliging com- 
mands. Indeed I had one apology — the 
bagatelle was not worth presenting. 
Besides, so strongly am I interested in 
Miss D 's fate and welfare in the se- 
rious business of life, amid its chances and 
changes ; that to make her the subject of 
a silly ballad, is downright mockery of 
these ardent feelings ; 'tis like an imper- 
tinent jest to a dying friend. 

Gracious Heaven ! why this disparity 
between our wishes and our powers i* 
Why is the most generous wish to make 
others blessed, impotent and ineffectual — 
as the idle breeze that crosses the path- 
less desert .' In my walks of life I have 
met with a few people to whom how glad- 
ly would I have said — " Go be happy !"' 
I know that your hearts have been wound- 
ed by the scorn of the proud, whom ac- 
cident has placed above you — or worse 
still, in whose hands are, perhaps, placed 
many of the comforts of your life. But 
there ! ascend that rock. Independence, 
and look justly down on their littleness of 
soul. Make the worthless tremble under 
your indignation, and the foolish sink be- 
fore your contempt ; and largi'ly impart 
that happiness to others which I am cer- 



172 



LETTERS. 



tain, will give yourselves so much plea- 
sure to bestow?." 



Why, dear Madam, must I w^ake from 
this delightful reverie, and find it all a 
dream? Why, amid my generous enthu- 
siasm, must 1 find myself poor and power- 
less, incapable of wiping one tear from 
the eye of pity, or of adding one comfort 
to the friend I love ! — Out upon the 
world ! say I, that its affairs are adminis- 
tered so ill ! They talk of reform ; — good 
Heaven what a reform would I make 
among the sons, and even the daughters 
of men ! — Down immediately should go 
fools from the high places where misbe- 
gotten chance has perked them up, and 
through life should they skulk, ever haunt- 
ed by their native insignificance, as the 
body marches accompanied by its shadow 
• — As for a much more formidable class,the 
knaves, I am at a loss what to do with 
them ; — had I a world, there should not 
be a knave in it. 



But the hand that could give, I would 
liberally fill ; and I would pour deliglit on 
the heart that could kindly forgive and 
generously love. 



Still, the inequalities of life are, among 
men, comparatively tolerable — but there 
is a delicacy, a tenderness, accompanying 
every view in which we can place lovely 
Woman, that are grated and shocked at 
Jie rude, capricious distinctions of for- 
tune. Woman is the blood royal of life : 
let there be slight degrees of precedency 
among them — but let them be all sacred. 
Whether this last sentiment be right or 
wrong, I am not accountable ; it is an ori- 
ginal component feature of my mind. 



No. CXXVII. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

ElUsIand, \llh December, 1791. 

Many thanks to you. Madam, for your 
good news respecting the little floweret 
and the mother-plant. I hope my poetic 
prayers have been heard, and will be an- 
swered up to the warmest sincerity of 



their fullest extent ; and then Mrs. Henri 
will find her little darling the representa- 
tive of his late parent, in every thing but 
his abridged existence. 



I have just finished the following song, 
which, to a lady the descendant of Wal- 
lace, and many heroes of his truly illustri- 
ous line, and herself the mother of seve- 
ral soldiers, needs neither preface nor 
apology. 



Scene — A Field of Battle — Time of the 
Day, Evening — the wounded and dying 
of the victorious Army are supposed to 
Join in the following 

SONG OF DEATH. 

Farewell thou fair day, thou green earth, and ye skies 

Now gay with I he broad setting snn ! 
Farewell loves and friendships; ye dear, tender ties, 

Our race of existence is run ! 

Thou grim king of terrors, thou life's gloomy foe, 

Go frighten the coward and shive ; 
Go, teach them to tremble, fell tyrant! but know 

No terrois hast thou to the brave ! 

Thou strik'st the poor peasant— he sinks In the dark, 

Nor saves e'en the wreck of a name; 
Thou strik'st the young hero — a glorious mark. 

He falls in the blaze of his fame ! 

In the field of proud honour— our swords in our hands; 

Our king and our country to save — 
While victory shines on life's last ebbing sands— 

O, who would not die with the brave 1* 



The circumstance that gave rise to the 
foregoing verses, was looking over, with 
a musical friend, M'Donald's collection of 
Highland airs, I was struck with one, an 
Isle of Skye tune, entitled Oran an Aoig, 
or. The Song of Death, to the measure of 
which I have adapted my stanzas. I have 
of late composed two or three other little 
pieces, which, ere yon full-orbed moon, 
whose broad impudent face, now stares at 
old mother earth all night, shall have 
shrunk into a modest crescent, just peep- 
ing forth at dewy dawn, I shall find an 
hour to transcribe for you. A Dieu je 
vous commende ! 



* This is a little altered from the one given In p 83 
of the Poems. 



LETTERS. 



173 



No. CXXVIII. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

5th JanuarT/, 1792. 

You see my hurried life, Madam : I 
can only command starts of time : how- 
ever, I am glad of one thing; since I 
finished the other sheet, the political blast 
that threatened my welfare is overblown. 
I have corresponded with Commissioner 
Graham, for the Board had made me the 
subject of their animadversions : and now 
I have the pleasure of informing you, that 
all is set to rights in that quarter. Now 
as to these informers, may the devil be 

let loose to but hold ! I was praying 

most fervently in my last sheet, and I 
must not so soon fall a swearing in this. 

Alas ! how little do the wantonly or 
idly officious think what mischief they do 
by their malicious insinuations, indirect 
impertinence, or thoughtless blabbings ! 
What a difference there is in intrinsic 
worth, candour, benevolence, generosity, 
kindness — in all the charities and all the 
virtues, between one class of human be- 
ings and another ! For instance, the ami- 
able circle I so lately mixed with in the 

hospitable hall of D , their generous 

hearts — their uncontaminated, dignified 
minds — their informed and polished un- 
derstandings — what a contrast, when com- 
pared — if such comparing were not down- 
right sacrilege — with the soul of the mis- 
creant who can deliberately plot the de- 
struction of an honest man that never 
offended him, and with a grin of satisfac- 
tion see the unfortunate being, his faith- 
ful wife and prattling innocents, turned 
over to beggary and ruin ! 

Your cup, my dear Madam, arrived safe. 
T had two worthy fellows dining with me 
the other day, when I with great formali- 
ty, produced my whigmeleerie cup, and 
told them that it had been a family-piece 
among the descendants of Sir William 
Wallace. This roused such an enthusi- 
asm, that they insisted on bumpering the 
punch roimd in it ; and, by and by, never 
did your great ancestor lay a Suthron more 
completely to rest, than for a time did 
your cup my two friends. A-propos .' 
this is the season of wishing. May God 
bless you. my dear friend ! and bless me, 
the humblest and sincerest of your friends, 
by granting you yet many returns of the 



season ! May all good things attend you 
and yours wherever they are Bcattered 
over the earth ! 



No. CXXIX. 
TO MR. WILLIAM SMELLIE, 

PRINTER. 

Dumfries, 22rf January, 1792. 

I SIT down, my dear Sir, to introduce 
a young lady to you, and a lady in the 
first rank of fashion, too. What a task ! 
to you — who care no more for the herd 
of animals called young ladies, than you 
do for the herd of animals called young 
gentlemen. To you — who despise and 
detest the groupings and combinations ot 
fashion, as an idiot painter that seems in- 
dustrious to place staring fools and un- 
principled knaves in the foreground of his 
picture, while men of sense and honesty 
are too often thrown in the dimmest 
shades. Mrs. Riddle, who will take this 
letter to town with her, and send it to 
you, is a character that, even in your own 
way as a naturalist and a philosopher, 
w'ould be an acquisition to your acquain- 
tance. The lady too is a votary of the 
muses ; and as I think myself somewhat of 
a judge in my own trade, I assure you that 
her verses, always correct, and often ele- 
gant, are much beyond the common run 
of the lady poetesses of the day. She is a 
great admirer of your book : and, hearing 
me say that I was acquainted with you, 
she begged to be known to you, as she is 
just going to pay her first visit to our Ca- 
ledonian capital. I told her that her best 
way was, to desire her near relation, and 
your intimate friend, Craigdarroch, to 
have you at his house while she was there , 
and lest you might think of a lively West 
Indian girl of eighteen, as girls of eighteen 
too often deserve to be thought of, I should 
take care to remove that prejudice. To 
be impartial, however, in appreciating the 
lady's merits, slie has one unlucky failing; 
a failing which yon will easily discover, 
as she seems rather pleased with indulg- 
ing in it ; and a failing that you will as 
easily pardon, as it is a sin which very 
much besets yourself; — where she dis- 
likes or despises, she is apt to make no 
more a secret of it, than where she es- 
teems and respects. 



174 



LETTERS. 



I will not present you with the unmean- 
ing comjjtimcnls of the season, but I will 
eend you my warmest wishes and most 
ardent prayers, that Fortune may never 
throw your suusistenck to the mercy of 
a knave, or set your character on the 
judgment of a fool; but that, upright and 
erect, you may walk to an honest grave, 
where men of letters shall say, Here lies 
a man who did honour to science ! and 
men of worth shall say, Here lies a man 
who did honour to human nature ! 



No. CXXX. 

TO MR. W. NICOL. 

20lh Februarij, 1792. 

O THOU, wisest among the wise, me- 
ridian blaze of prudence, full moon of dis- 
cretion, and chief of many counsellors ! 
How infinitely is thy puddled-headed, rat- 
tle-headed, wrong-headed, round-headed 
slave indebted to thy supereminont good- 
ness, that from the luminous path of thy 
own right-lined rectitude, thou lookest 
benignly down on an erring wretch, of 
whom tiie zig-zag wanderings defy all the 
powers of calculation, from the simple 
copulation of units up to the hidden mys- 
teries of lluxions: May one feeble ray of 
that light of wisdom wliicli darts from thy 
eensorium, straight as the arrow of heaven, 
and bright as the meteor of inspiration, 
may it be my portion, so that I may be 
less unworthy of the face and fiivour of 
that father of proverbs and master of 
maxims, that antipode of folly, and mag- 
net among the sages, the wise and witty 
Willie Nicol ! Amen ! Amen ! Yea, so 
be it ! 

For me 1 T am a beast, a reptile, and 
know nothing ! From the cave of my ig- 
norance, amid the fogs of my dulness, 
and pi^stilential fumes of my political he- 
resies. I look up to thee, as dotli a toad 
tiirough the iron-barred lucerne of a pes- 
tiferous dungeon, to the cloudless glory 
of a summer sun ! Sorely sighing in 
bitterness of soul, I say, when siiall my 
name be the quotation of the wise, and 
my countenance be the d(4igUt of the god- 
ly, like the illustrious lord of Laggan's 
many hills ?* As for him, his works are 

•Mr Nlcol. 



perfect: never did the pen of calumny blur 
the fair page of his reputation, nor the 
bolt of hatred fly at his dwelling. 



Thou mirror of purity, when shall the 
clfme lamp of my glimerous understand- 
ing, purged from sensual appetites and 
gross desires, shine like the constellation 
of thy intellectual powers ! As for thee, 
thy thoughts are pure, and thy lips are 
holy. Never did the unhallowed breath 
of the powers of darkness, and. the plea- 
sures of darkness, pollute the sacred 
flame of thy sky-descended and heaven- 
bound desires : never did the vapours of 
impurity stain the unclouded serene of thy 
cerulean imagination. O that like thine 
were the tenor of my life ! like thine the 
tenor of my conversation ! then should 
no friend fear for my strength, no enemy 
rejoice in my weakness ! then should I lie 
down and rise up, and none to make me 
afraid. — May thy pity and thy prayer be 
exercised for, O thou lamp of wisdom and 
mirror of morality 1 thy devoted slave.* 



No. CXXXI. 
TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

2d March, 1792. 

Sfnce T wrote you the last lugubrioi:« 
sheet, I have not had time to write you 
further. When I say that I had not time, 
that, as usual, means, that the three de- 
mons, indolence, business, and ennui, have 
so completely shared my hours among 
them, as not to leave me a five-minutes' 
fragment to take up a pen in. 

Thank lionven, I feel my spirits buoy- 
ing upwards with the renovating year. 
Now I siiall in good earnest take up 
Thomson's songs. I dare say he thinks 1 
Iiave used him unkindly, and I must own 
witli too nuich appearance of truth, ji- 
/»»•()/)«.« .' Do yon know the much admired 
old Highlandair, called ThcSutnr's Dock- 
ter ? It is a first-rate fiivourite of mine, 

* Tliis siiain of inmy was excited by a U-tlerof Mr. 
Nicol, containing good advice 



LETTERS. 



175 



and T have writton what I reckon one of 
my best songs to it. I will send it to you 
as it wris eimg with great a|)i)lfiusc in some 
fashionable circles by Major llobcrtson of 
Lude, wiio was hero with his corps. 



There is one commission that T nnist 
trouble you with. I lately lost a valuable 
seal, a present from a departed friend, 
wliich vexes me nnich. 1 have gotten 
one of your Highland pchbh^s, wliich 1 
fancy would nuike a very decent one ; and 
I want to cut my armorial bearing on it ; 
will you be so obliging as in(|uire what 
will be the expense of such a business?' 
T do not know that my name is matricu- 
lated, as the heralds call it, at all; but I 
have invented arms for myself, so you 
know I shall be chief of the name; and, 
by courtesy of Scotland, will likewise be 
entitled to supporters. These, however, 
I do not intend having on my seal. I am 
a bit of a herald, and shall give you, sc- 
sundum artan, my arms. On a licdd, azure, 
a holy bush, seeded, proper, in base; a 
phepherd's pipe and crook, saltier-wise, 
also proj)er, in chi(d'. On a wreath of the 
colours, a wood-lark perching on a sprig 
of bay tree, proper, for cr(!st. Two mot- 
toes : round the top of the crest, Wood 
note.i wild; at the bottom of the shield, in 
the usual place, HcUcyuiwee Imnh Hum nne 
hield. V>y the shepherd's pipe and crook 
I do not mean the nonsense of painters of 
Arcadia, but a Slock and Horn, and a 
Club, such as you see at the head of Al- 
lan Ramsay, in Allan's quarto edition of 
the Gentle Shrphord. liy the by, do you 
know Allan ? He nnist be a man of very 
great g'niius— Why is 1h; not more known? 
— Has he no patrons? or do " Poverty's 
cold wind and crushing rain beat keen and 
heavy" on him? I once, and but once, 
got a glance of that noble edition of that 
noblest pastoral in the world ; and dear as 
it was, t mean, dear as to my pocket, I 
would have bought it ; but I was told that 
it was printed and engraved for subscri- 
bers only. He is the onli/ artist who has 
hit f^eimine pastoral rostiime. What, my 
di!ar Cunningham, is there in riches, that 
they narrow and harden the heart so ? I 
think, that were I as rich as the sim, I 
sinuld be as generous as the day; but as 
I have no reason to imagine my sonl a 
nobler one than anj jtlier man's, I must 
conclude that wealth imparts a bird-lime 



quality to the possessor, at wliich the 
man, in his native poverty would have re- 
volted. What has led me to this, is the 
idea of sucii merit as Mr. Allan possesses, 
and such riches as a nabob or government 
contractor possesses, and why they do not 
form a mutual league. Ijct wealth shel- 
ter and cherish unprotected merit, and 
the gratitude and celebrity of that merit 
will richly repay it. 



No. CXXXIT. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 
Annan Water Foot, 22d Aug. 1 792. 

Do not blame me for it Madam — my 
own conscience, hackneyed and weather- 
beaten as it iy, in watching and reproving 
my vagaries, follies, indolence, &.c. has 
continued to blame and punish me sufFi- 
cienlly. 



Do you think it possible, my dear and 
honoured friend, that I could be so lost 
to gratitude for many favours ; to esteem 
for mucii worth, and to the honest, kind, 
pleasurable tie of, now old acquaintance, 
and I hope and am sure of progressive, 
increasing friendship — as, for a single day, 
not to think of you — to ask the Fates what 
they are doing and about to do with my 
much-loved friend and her wide-scattered 
connexions, and to beg of them to be as 
kind to you and yours as they possibly 
can ? 

A-propos I (though how it is a-propos, 
T have not leisure to explain) I)o you 
know that [ am almost in love with an 
acquaintance of yours ? — Almost! said I 
— 1 am in love, souse ! over head and ears, 
deep as the most unfathomable abyss of 
the boundless ocean ; but the word Love, 
owinc to the inlerini7i!^ledoms of ihr. good 
and the bad, the pure and the impure, 
in this world, beinir rather an equivocal 
term for expressing one s sentiments and 
sensations, I must do justice to the sacred 
purity of my attachment. Krmw, then, 
that the heart-struck awe ; the distant, 
humble approach; the delight we should 
have in gazing upon and listening to » 



176 



LETTERS. 



Messenger of heaven, appearing in all the 
unspotted purity of his celestial home, 
among the coarse, polluted, far inferior 
eons of men, to deliver to them tidings that 
make their hearts swim in joy, and their 
imaginations soar in transport — such, so 
delighting and so pure, were the emotion 
of my soul on meeting the other day with 

Miss L — B — , your neighbour, at M . 

Mr. B. with his two daughters accompa- 
nied by Mr. 11. of G., passing through 
Dumfries a few days ago, on their way to 
England, did me the honour of calling on 
me ; on which I took my horse (though 
God knows I could ill spare the time,) 
and accompanied them fourteen or fifteen 
miles, and dined and spent the day with 
them. 'Twas about nine, I think, when 
I left them ; and, riding home, I composed 
the following ballad, of which you will 
probably think you have a dear bargain, 
as it will cost you another groat of post- 
age. You must know that there is an old 
ballad beginning with — 

" My bonnle Lizie Bailie, 
I'll rowe tlii'e in my plaidie." 

So T parodied it as follows, which is lite- 
rally the first copy, " unanointed, unan- 
neal'd;" as Hamlet says. — 

" O saw ye boiinie Lesley," &c. 

So much for ballads. I regret that you 
are gone to tlic east country, as I am to 
be in Ayrshire in about a fortnight. This 
world of ours, notwithstanding it has ma- 
ny good things in it, yet it has ever had 
this curse, that two or three people, wlio 
would be the happier the oftener they 
met together, are almost witliout excep- 
tion, always so placed as never to meet 
but once or twice a-year, which, consider- 
ing the few years of a man's life, is a very 
great " evil under the sun," which I do 
not recollect that Solomon has mentioned 
in his catalogue of the miseries of man. 
I hope and believe that there is a state of 
existence beyond the grave, where the 
worthy of this life will renew tiieir former 
intimacies, with this endearing addition, 
that, " we meet to part no more !" 



" Toll 119 ye dead, 
Will none of yon in pity riiscloso tlic secret 
What 'lis you arc, and we must slioi tly lie ?" 

A thousand limes have I made this apos- 
trojih!^ to tlie departed sons of men, but 
not one of them has ever thought fit to 



answer the question. " O that some cour- 
teous ghost would blab it out !" but it can- 
not be ; you and I, my friend, must make 
the experiment by ourselves, and for our- 
selves. However, I am so convinced that 
an unshaken faith in the doctrines of re 
ligion is not only necessary, by making 
us better men, but also by making us hap- 
pier men, that I shall take every care that 
your little godson, and every little crea- 
ture that shall call me father, shall be 
taught them. 

So ends this heterogeneous letter, writ- 
ten at this wild place of the world, in the 
intervals of my labour of discharging a 
vessel of rum from Antijrua. 



No. CXXXHl. 
TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

Dumfries, 10th September, 1792. 

No ! I will not attempt an apology - 
Amid all my hurry of business grinding 
tlie faces of the publican and the sinner 
on the merciless wheels of the Excise ; 
making ballads, and then drinking, and 
singing them; and, over and above all, 
the correcting the press-work of two dif- 
ferent publications, still, still I might have 
stolen five minutes to dedicate to one of 
the first of my friends and fellow-crea- 
tures. I misjht have done, as I do at 
present, snatched an hour near " witch- 
ing time of night," and scrawled a page 
or two. I might have congratulated my 
friend on his marriage, or I might have 
thanked the Caledonian archers for the 
honour they have done me (though to do 
myself justice, I intended to have done 
both in rhyme, else 1 had done both long 
ere now.) Well, then, here is to your 
good health ! for you must know I have 
set a nipperkin of .toddy by me, just by 
way of spell, to keep away the meikle 
horned Deil, or any of his subaltern imps 
who may be on their nightly rounds. 

But what shall I write to you ? " The 
voice said, Cry ! and I said. What shall T 
cry?" — O, tliou spirit I whatever thou art, 
or wherever thou makest thyself visible I 
be tliou a bogle by the eerie side of an auld 
thorn, in the dreary glen through which 
the herd callan maun bicker in his gloa- 



LETTERS. 



177 



mill route frac the faulde ! Be thou a 
brownie, set, at dead of nijrlit, to thy to,sk 
by the blazing ingle, or in the solitary 
barn, where tl:e repercussions of thy iron 
^ail half affright thyself as thou perform- 
est the work of twenty of tlie sons of men, 
ere the cock-crowing summon thee to thy 
ample cog of substantial brosc. Be thou 
a kelpie, haunting tlie ford or ferry, in the 
starless night, mixing thy laughing yell 
with the liovvling of the storm and the 
roaring of the flood, as thou vicwest the 
perils and miseries of man on the founder- 
ing horse, or in the tumbling boat ! — Or, 
lastly, bo thou a ghost, paying thy noc- 
turnal visits to the hoary ruins of decayed 
grandeur; or performing thy mystic rites in 
the shadow of the time-worn church, while 
the moon looks, without a cloud, on the- 
silent ghastly dwellings of the dead around 
thee; or taking thy stand by the bedside 
of the villain, or the murderer, portraying 
on his dreaming fancy, pictures, dreadful 
as the horrors of unveiled hell, and terri- 
ble as the wrath of incensed Deity ! — 
Come, thou spirit ! but not in these hor- 
rid forms : come with the milder, gentle, 
easy inspirations which thou breathest 
round the wig of a prating advocate, or 
the (tie of a tea-sipping gossip, while 
their tongue.« run at the light-horse gal- 
lop of clish-niaclaver for ever and ever — 
come and assist a poor devil who is quite 
jaded in the attempt to share half an idea 
among half a hundred words; to fill up 
four quarto pages, while he has not got 
one single sentence of recollection, infor- 
mation, or remark, worth putting pen to 
paper for. 

I feel, I feel the presence of supernatu- 
ral assistance ! circled in the embrace of 
my elbow-chair, my breast labours like 
the bloatod Sibyl on hcrthrec-footed stool, 
and like her too, lal)ours with Nonsense. 
Nonsi'nse, auspicious name! Tutor, friend, 
and linfj'nr-post in the mystic mazes oflaw; 
the cadaverous i)atlis of physic; and par- 
ticulat ly in the sightless soarings of scrioor. 
niv I MTV, who leaving Common Sense con- 
founded nt his strength of pinion, Reason, 
delirious with eyeing his giddy flight ; aiul 
Truth creeping back into the bottom of 
her well, cursing the hour that ever sfie 
offered her scorned alliance to the wizard 
power of Tlieologic Vision — raves abroad 
on all the windj. " On earth, Discord ! 
a gloomy Heaven above opening her jea- 
lous gates to tliP nineteen thousandth pjirt 
of the tithe of mankind ! and below, an in- 
escapable and inexorable Hell, expanding 



its leviathan jaws for the vast residue of 
mortals ! ! !" O doctrine ! comfortable and 
healing to the weary, wounded soul of 
man ! Ye sons and daughters of aflliction, 
ye pauvres misernhles, to whom day brings 
no pleasure, and night yields no rest, be 
comforted ! " 'Tis but one to nineteen 
hundred thousand that your situation will 
mend in this world;" so, alas! the expe- 
rience of the poor and the needy too often 
aflirms; and, 'tis nineteen hundred thou- 
sand to one, by the dogmas of *****i<**^ 
that you will be damned eternally in the 
world to come ! 

But of all Nonsense, Religious Non- 
sense is the most nonsensical ; so enough, 
and more than enough, of it. Only, by 
the by, will you, or can you tell me, my 
dear Cunningham, why a sectarian turn 
of mind has always a tendency to narrow 
and illiberalize the heart ? They are or- 
derly : they may be just; nay, I have 
known them merciful; but ^till your chil- 
dren of sanctity move amonj^ their fellow- 
creatures, with a nostril-snufling putres- 
cence, and a foot-spurning filth ; in short, 
with a conceited dignity that your titled 
* * * * or any other of your Scottish 
lordlings of seven centuries' standing, dis- 
play when they accidentally mix among 
the many-aproned sons of mechanical life. 
I remember, in my plough-boy days, I 
could not conceive it possible that a noble 
lord could be a fool, or a godly man could 
be a knave. — How ignorant are plough- 
boys ! — Nay, I have since discovered that 
a godly woman may be a * * * * * ! — But 
hold — Here's t'ye again — this rum is ge 
nerous Antigua, so a very unfit menstru 
um for scandal. 

A-'prnpns ; How do you like, I mea»i 
rcnllij, like the married life? Ah! my 
friend matrimony is quite a different thing 
from what your love-sick youths and sigh- 
ing girls take it to be I But marriage, we 
are told, is appointed by Cod, and T shall 
never quarrel with any of his institutions. 
I am a husband of older standing than you, 
and shall give you my ideas of the conju- 
gal state [en pas-.iant, you know I am no 
Latinist : is not conjugal derivful from ;«- 
fCinn, a yoke?) Well, then the scale of 
good wifesliip T divide into ten parts: — 
Cood-nature, four; Good Sense, two; 
Wit, one; Personal Charms, viz. a sweet 
face, eloquent eyes, fine limbs, graceful 
carriage (I would add a fine waist too, but 
that is sof)n spoiled you know,) all these, 
one; as for the other qualities belonging 



TTO 



LETTERS. 



to, or attending on, a wife, such as For- 
tune, Connexions, Education, (I mean 
education extraordinary,) Family Blood, 
&c., divide the two remaining degrees 
among tiicm as you please ; only remem- 
ber that all these minor properties must 
be expressed by frartions, for there is not 
any one of tiiem in the aforesaid scale, en- 
titled to the dignity of an inlcgcr. 



As for the rest of my fancies and 
reveries — how I lately met with Miss 

L I> , the most beautiful, elegant 

woman in the world — how I accompanied 
her and her father's family fifteen miles 
on their journey out of pure devotion, to 
admire the loveliness of tiie works of God, 
in such an unequalled display of them — 
how, in galloping home at night, I made a 
ballad on her, of which these two'stanzas 
made a part — 

Thou, bonnle L , art a queen, 

Thy Biibjccts we before llicc ; 
Tliou, boiHiie L , art divine, 

Tlie hearts o' men adore tliee. 

The very Dcil he could na scathe 

Whatever wad helang thee ! 
He'd look into thy bonnie face, 

And say, " I canna wrang thee !" 

. Behold all these things are written in 
the chronicles of my imaginations, and 
shall be read by thee, my dear friend, 
and by thy beloved spouse, my otlier dear 
friend, at a more convenient season. 



Now, to thee, and to thy before de- 
signed ft()so7»-companion, be given the 
precious things brought forth by the sun, 
and the precious things brouglit forth by 
the moon, and the beniguest inlluencesof 
the stars, and the liviug streams which 
flow from the fountains of life, and by 
the tree of life, for ever and ever ! 
Amen .' 



No. CXXXIV. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP 

Dumfries, 2-Uh Srptcmher, 1702. 

I HAVK this moment, my dear Madam, 
yours of the twenty-third. All your 
other kind reproaches, your news, &c. 
are out of my head ulicu I rend andtliink 
jn Mrs. II— 's situation. Good God ! 



a heart-wounded, helpless young woman 
— in a strange, foreign land, and tliat land 
convulsed with every horror that can har- 
row the human feelings — sick — looking, 
longing for a comforter, but finding none 
— a mother's feelings too — but it is too 
much : He who wounded (He only can) 
may He heal !* 



I wish the farmer great joy of his new 
acquisition to his family, *••*=* :* 
I cannot say that I give him joy of his 
life as a farmer. 'Tis, as a farmer pay- 
ing a dear, unconscionable rent, a cursed 
life ! As to a laird farming his own pro- 
perty ; sowing his own corn in hope ; and 
reaping it, in spite of brittle weather, in 
gladness : knowing that none can say 
unto him, " what dost thou !" — fattening 
his herds; shearing his flocks ; rejoicing 
at Christmas: and begetting sons and 
daughters, until lie be the venerated, 
gray-haired leader of a little tribe — 'tis 
a heavenly life ! — But devil take the life 
of reaping the fruits that another must 
eat! 

Well, your kind wishes wl oe grati- 
fied, as to seeing me, when I make my 

Ayrshire visit. I cannot leave Mrs. B • 

until her nine months' race is run, which 
may perhaps be in three or four weeks. 
She, too, seems determined to make mo 
the patriarchal leader of a band. How- 
ever, if Heaven will be so obliging as to 
let me have them in proportion of three 
boys to one girl, I shall be so much the 
more y)leased. I hope, if I am spared 
with them, to siiow a set of boys that wiL 
do honour to my cares and name ; but I 
am not equal to the task of rearing girls. 
Besides, I am too poor : a girl should al- 
ways have a fortune. — A-prnpos ; your 
little godson is thriving charmingly, but 
is a very devil. He, titough two years 
younger, lias completely mastered his 
brother. Robert .is indeed the mildest, 
gentlest creature I ever saw. He has a 
most surprising memory, and is quite the 
pride of his schoolmaster. 

You know how readily we get into 
prattle upon a subject dear to our Iioart: 
You can excuse it. God bless you and 
yours! 

* This much lanioiitcd lady was pone to tlicPoulhM 
France with her infant son, where slie died soon alio; 



LETTERS. 



179 



No. CXXXV. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Supposed to linve been written an the Death 
ofJ^lrs. II , her daughter. 

I HAH been from homo, and did not re- 
ceive yovir letter until my return the other 
day. VVlmt shall I say to comfort you, 
my much-valued, much alllicted friend ! 
I can but grieve with yon ; consolation I 
have none to offer, exccjit that whicli re- 
ligion holds out to the cliildren of alilic- 
tion — Children of qfjliction ! — Iiovv just 
the expression ! and like every other fa- 
mily, they have matters among thcni, 
which they hear, see, and feel in a serious, 
all-important manner, of which the world 
has not, nor cares to have, any idea. The 
world looks indifferently on, makes the 
passing remark, and proceeds to the next 
novel occuircnce. 

Alas, Madam ! who would wish for 
many years ? What is it but to drag ex- 
istence until our joys gradually expire, 
and leave us in a night of misery ; like 
the gloom which blots out the stars one 
by one, from the face of night, and leaves 
us without a ray of comfort in the howl- 
ing waste ! 

I am interrupted, and must leave off. 
You shall soon hear from me again. 



No. CXXXVI. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Dumfries, 6th December, 1792. 

I SHAM, be in Ayrshire, T think next 
week ; and, if at all possible, I shall cer- 
tainly, my much-esteemed friend, have 
the pleasure of visiting at Dunlop-IIouse. 



A^as, Madam ! how seldom do we meet 
in this world that we liat'e reason to con- 
gratulate ourselves on accessions of hap- 
piness I I have not passed half the ordi- 
nary term of an old man's life, and yet I 
scarcely look over the obitunry ofa news- 
paper, that I do not see some names tliat 
I have known, and which I and other ac- 
quaintances, little thougiit to meet with 
A a 



there so soon. Every other instance of 
the mortality of our kind makes us cast 
an anxious look into the dreadful abyss of 
uncertainty, and shudder with apprelien- 
sion for our own fate. But of how differ- 
ent an importance are the lives of different 
individuals? Nay, of what importance is 
one period of the same life more than ano- 
ther? A i'tiw years ago, 1 could have lain 
down in the dust, " careless of the voice 
of the morning;" and now not a few, 
and these n\ost helpless individuals, would, 
on losing me and my exertions, lose both 
tiieir " st;if}' and shield." By the way, 
th(-so helpless ones have lately got an ad- 
dition, Mrs. ]] having given me a 

fine girl since I wrote you. Tliere is a 
charming passage in Thomson's Edward 
and Elcanora — 

" The valiant in himadf, wliat can he sufl'er'? 
Or what need lie rcfjard his single woes ?" &c. 

As T am got in the way of quotations, 
I shall give yon another from the same 
piece, peculiarly, alas ! too peculiarly ap- 
posite, my dear Madam, to your present 
frame of mind : 

" Who so tmworthy hut may promlly declc him 
With his (iiir-wcather virtue, llial exults 
dad o'er the suiiirner main 7 the tempest cnmcs, 
The rou{;h winds raf,'e aloud ; when frmii the heim 
This virtue shrinks, and in a corner lies 
IjainenliuK — Heavens ! if privilefied from trial 
How cheap a thing wero virtue !" 

I do not remember to have heard you 
mention Thomson's dramas. I pick up 
favourite (piotations, and store them in 
my mind as ready armour, offensive or 
defensive, amid the struggle of this tur- 
bulent existence. Of these is one, a very 
favourite one, from his Alfred: 

" Attach thee firmly to the virtuous deeds 

And olhces of life ; to life itself. 

With all its vain and transient joys, sit loose" 

Probably I have quoted some of these 
to you formerly, as indeed wiien 1 write 
from the heart, I am apt to be guilty of 
such repetitions. The compass of the 
heart, in the musical style of expression. 
is much more bounded than that of the 
imagination ; so tlie notes of the former 
are extremely ay)t to rim into one another* 
but in return for the paucity of its com 
pass, its fe(A' notes are much more sweet 
I must still give you anctlier quotation, 
which T am almost sure I have given you 
before, but I cannot resist the temptation. 



180 



LETTERS. 



The subject is rcli{]^ion — speakings of its 
importance to mankind, tlie author says, 

" 'Tis this, my friend, tlint streaks our morning bright, 

'Tis this that gilds llie horror of our niglit. 

When weallli forsakes ns, and when friends arc few ; 

When friends arc faithless, or when foes puisue ; 

"Tis this tlmt wards the blow, or stills the smart, 

Disarms attiiction, or repels his dart ; 

Within the breast bids purest raptures rise, 

Bids smiling conscience spread her cloudless skies." 

I see you arc in for a double posta^jc, 
60 I shall c'cn scribble out t'other sheet. 
We, in this country here, have many 
alarms of tiie reformiug^, or rather the re- 
publican spirit, of your ])art of the king- 
dom. Indeed, we are a good deal in com- 
motion ourselves. For me, I am a place- 
man, you know : a very humble one in- 
deed. Heaven knows, but still so uiuch so 
as to gag me. What my private senti- 
ments are, you will tiud out without an 
interpreter. 



I have taken up the subject in another 
view, and the other day, for a pretty Ac- 
tress's bcnotit-niglit, 1 wrote an Address, 
which I will give on tlie other page, call- 
ed The Rights of Woman.* 

I shall have the honour of receiving 
vour criticisms in person at Dunlop. 



No. CXXXVIl. 



TO MISS B*'^'^**i OF YORK. 



2Ul March, 1792. 



MADAM, 



Among many things for which T envy 
those hale, long-lived old fellows before 
the Hood, is this in particular, that when 
they met with any body after their own 
heart, they had a charmiug long prospect 
of many, many happy meetings with them 
in after-life. 

Now, in this short, stormy, winter day 
of our fleeting existence, wlien you, now 
and then, in the Chapter of Accidents, 
meet an individual wliose acquaintance 
IR a red acquisition, there are all the pro- 

• S«o rooms, p. 83. 



babilities against you, that you sliall never 
meet with that valued ciuiracLer more. Ou 
the other hand, brief as this miserable be- 
ing is, it is none of the least of the mise- 
ries belonging to it, that if there is any 
miscreant wiiom you hate, or creature 
whom you despise, the ill run of the 
chances shall be so against you, that in 
the overtakings, turnings, and jostlings of 
life, pop, at some imlucky corner eternal- 
ly comes the wrctcli upon you, and will 
not allow your indigiuition or contempt a 
moment's repose. As I am a sturdy be- 
liever in the powers of darkness, I take 
these to be the doings of that old author 
of misciiief, the devil. It is well known 
that he has some kind of short-hand way 
of taking down our thoughts, and I make 
no doubt that he is perfectly acquainted 
with my sentiments respecting Miss 13 — ; 
how much I admired her abilities, and 
valued iter worth, and how V(>ry fortunate 
1 thought myself in her acquaintance. For 
this last reason, my dear Madam, I must 
entertain no hopes of the very great plea- 
sure of meeting with you again. 

Miss II tells me that she is sending 

a packet to you, and I beg leave to send 
you the enclosed sonnet, though, to tell 
you the real truth, the sonnet is a mere 
pretence, that I may have the opiiortimi- 
ty of declariiiff witli how much respectful 
esteem I have the honour to be, v*l:c. 



No. CXXXVIII. 



TO MISS C****. 



.^ ugu.it, 1793. 



MADAM, 



Some rather unlooked-for accidents 
have prevented my doing mj'self the lio- 
nour of a second visit to Arbeigland, as I 
was so hospitably invited, and so positive- 
ly meant to have done. — However, I still 
hope to have tiiat pleasure belbre the bu- 
sy months of harvest begin. 

I enclose you two of my late pieces, as 
some kind of return for the plensure 1 have 
received in perusing a certain MS. volume 
of poems in the possession of Captain Rid- 
del. To repay one with an old .i(>7ig, is a 
proverb, wliose force, you, INIadain, I 
know, will not allow. What is said Oi 
illustrious descent is, I believe equally 



LETTERS. 



inl 



true of a talent for poetry, none ever de- 
spised it who had pretensions to it. The 
fates and characters of tlie rhyming trihe 
often employ my thoughts when I am dis- 
posed to be melanclioly. There is not 
among all the niartyrologics that ever 
were penned, so rueful a narrative as the 
lives of the poets. — In the comparative 
view of wretches, the criterion is not what 
they are doomed to suffer, but how they 
are formed to bear. Take a being of our 
kind, give him a stronger imagination and 
a more delicate sensit)ility, whicii between 
them will ever engender a more ungovern- 
able set of passions than are the usual lot 
of man, wnplant in him an irresistible im- 
pulse to bOMie idle vagary, such as ar- 
ranging wild flowers in fantastical nose- 
gays, tracing the grasshopper to his haunt 
by his chirping song, watching the frisks 
of the little minnows, in the sunny pool, 
or hunting after the intrigues of butter- 
flies — in sliort, send him adrift after some 
pursuit which shall eternally mislead him 
from the paths of lucre, and yet curse him 
with a keener relish than any man living 
for the pleasures that lucre can purchase: 
lastly, fill up the measure of his woes by 
bestowing on him a spurning sense of his 
own dignity, and you have created a wight 
nearly as miserable as a poet. To you. 
Madam, I need not recount the fairy plea- 
sures the muse bestows to counterbalance 
this catalogue of evils. Bewitching poe- 
try is like bewitching woman ; she has in 
all ages been accused of misleading man- 
kind from the councils of wisdom and the 
paths of prudence, involving them indifii- 
culties, baiting them with poverty, brand- 
ing them with infamy, and plunging them 
in the whirling vortex of ruin ; yet where 
is the man but must own that all our hap- 
piness on earth is not worthy the name — 
that even the holy hermit's solitary pros- 
pect of paradisaical bliss is but the glitter 
of a northern sun rising over a frozen re- 
gion, compared with the many pleasures, 
the nameless raptures tliot we owe to the 
lovely Queen of the heart of Man! 



No. CXXXTX. 
TO JOHN M'MURDO, ESQ. 

December, 1793. 



Tt 13 said that we take the greatest 
liberties with our greatest friends and I 



pay myself a very high compliment in the 
manner in which I am going to apply the 
remark. 1 have owed you money longer 
than ever I owed to any man. Here is 
Ker's account, and here are six guineas ; 
and now, I don't owe a shilling to man — 
or woman cither. But for these damned 
dirty, dog's-eared little pages,* I had done 
myself the honour to have waited on you 
long ago. Independent of the obligations 
your hospitality has laid me under; the 
consciousness of your superiority in the 
rank of man and gentleman, of itself was 
fully as much as I could ever make head 
against ; but to owe you money too, waa 
more tlian I could face. 

I think I once mentioned something of 
a collection of Scots songs I have some 
years been making : I send you a perusal 
of what I have got together. I could not 
conveniently spare them above five or six 
days, and five or six glances of them will 
probably more than sulRcc you. A very 
few of them are my own. When you are 
tired of them, please leave them with Mr. 
Clint, of the King's Arms. There is not 
another copy of the collection in the world ; 
and I should be sorry that any unfortunate 
negligence should deprive me of what has 
cost me a good deal of pains. 



No. CXL. 

TO MRS. R*****, 

Ifho was to bespeak a Play one Evening at 
the Dumfries Theatre. 

T AM thinking to send my Jiddress to 
some porifidical publication, but it has not 
got your sanction, so pray look over it. 

As to the Tuesday's play, let me beg of 
you, my dear Madam, to give us. The 
Wonder^ a IVoman kf.pps a Secret ! to 
which please add, The Spoilt Child — you 
will highly oblige me by so doing. 

Ah ! what an enviable creature you 
jire ! There now, this cursed gloomy blue- 
devil day, you are going to a party of choice 
spirits — 

* Scoabh Dank Kotet. 



182 



LETTERS. 



" To play the shapes 
Of frolic fancy, and incessant form, 
Those rspid pictures, that assembled trahi 
Of fleet ideas, never join'd before, 
Wi-.ere lively wit excites to gay surprise ; 
Or folly-painting humour, grave himself, 
Calls laughter forth, deep-shaking every nerve." 

Eat as you rejoice with them that do 
rr'ioice, do also remember to weep with 
iliem that weep, and pity your melancholy 
friend. 



No. CXLI. 

To a Lady, in favour of a Player's Benefit. 



You were so very good as to promise 
me to honour my friend with your pre- 
sence on his benefit-night. That night 
is fixed for Friday first ! the play a most 
interesting one ! The Way to keep him. 
I have the pleasure to know Mr. G. well. 
His merit as an actor is generally ac- 
knowledged. He has genius and worth 
which would do honour to patronage ; he 
is a poor and modest man : claims which 
*"rom their -*'cry silence have the more 
forcible power on the generous heart. 
Alas, for pity ! that from the indolence of 
those who have the good things of this 
life in their gift, too often does brazen- 
fronted importunity snatch that boon, the 
rightful due of retiring, humble want ! 
Of all the qualities we assign to the au- 
thor and director of Nature, by far the 
most enviable is — to be able " to wipe 
away all tears from all eyes." O what 
insignificant, sordid wretches are they, 
however chance may have loaded them 
with wealth, who go to their graves, to 
their magnificent mausoleums, with hardly 
the consciousness of having made one 
poor honest heart happy ! 

But I crave your pardon, Madam, I 
came to beg, not to preach. 



No. CXLH. 
EXTRACT OF A LETTER 



TO MR. 



letter which Mr. S*** showed me. At 
present, my situation in life must be in a 
great measure stationary, at least for two 
or three years. The statement is this — 
I am on the supervisors' list ; and as we 
come on there by precedency, in two or 
three years I shall be at the head of that 
list, and be appointed of course — then, a 
Friend might be of service to me in get- 
ting me into a place of the kingdom which 
I would like. A supervisor's income va- 
ries from about a hundred and twenty to 
two hundred a-year; but the business is 
an incessant drudgery, and would ha 
nearly a complete bar to every species 
of literary pursuit. The moment 1 am 
appointed supervisor in the common rou- 
tine, I may be nominated on the Col- 
lector's list ; and this is always a business 
purely of political patronage. A collec- 
torship varies much from better than two 
hundred a-year to near a thousand. They 
also come forward by precedency on tlie 
list, and have, besides a handsome income, 
a life of complete leisure. A life of hte- 
rary leisure, with a decent competence, 
is the summit of my wishes. It would be 
the prudish affectation of silly pride in 
me, to say that I do not need, or would 
not be indebted to a political friend ; at 
the same time, Sir, I by no means lay my 
affairs before you thus, to hook my de- 
pendent situation on your benevolence 
If, in my progress in life, an opening 
should occur where the good offices of a 
gentleman of your public character and 
political consequence might bring me for- 
ward, I will petition your goodness with 
the same frankness and sincerity as I now 
do myself the honour to subscribe my- 
self, &c. 



No. CXLIII. 



1794. 



1 AIM extremely obliged to you for 
your kmd mention of my interests, in a 



TO MRS. R***** 



DEAR MADAM, 

I MEANT to have called on you yes- 
ternight ; but as I edged up to your box- 
door, the first object which greeted my 
view was one of those lobster-coated pup- 
pies, sitting like another dragon, guarding 
the Hesperian fruit. On the conditions 
and capitulations you so obligingly offer, 
1 shall certainly make my weather-beaten 
rustic phiz a part of your box-furniture 



LFTTERS. 



183 



on Tuesday, when we may arrange tno 
business of the visit. 



Amonor the profusion of idle compli- 
ments, which insidious craft, or unmean- 
ing folly, incessantly offer at your shrine 
— a shrine, how far exalted above such 
adoration — permit me, were it but for 
rarity's sake, to pay you the honest tri- 
buteof a warm heart and an independent 
mind ; and to assure you that I am, thou 
most amiable, and most accomplished of 
thy sex, with the most respectful esteem, 
and fervent regard, thine, &c. 



r' ~ No. CXLIV. 

t 

TO THE SAME. 

I WILL wait on you, my ever-valued 
friend, but whether in the morning I am 
not sure. Sunday closes a period of our 
cursed revenue business, and may pro- 
bably keep me employed with my pen un- 
til noon. Fine employment for a poet's 
pen ! There is a species of the human 
genus that I call the gin-horse class : what 
enviable dogs they are ! Round, and round, 
and round they go — Mundell's ox, that 
drives his cotton-mill, is their exact pro- 
totype — without an idea or wish beyond 
their circle ; fat, sleek, stupid, patient, 
quiet, and contented : while here I sit, 

altogether Novemberish, a d melange 

of fretfuluess and melancholy ; not enough 
of the one to rouse me to passion, nor of 
the other to repose me in torpor ; my soul 
flouncing and fluttering round her tene- 
ment, like a wild finch caught amid the 
horrors of winter, and newly thrust into 
a cage. Well, I am persuaded that it 
was of me the Hebrew sage prophesied, 
when he foretold — " And behold on what- 
soever this man doth set his heart, it shall 
not prosper!" If my resentment is awak- 
ened, it is sure to be where it dare not 
i?queak ; and if — 



Pray that wisdom and bliss be more 
frequent visitors of 

R. B. 



No. CXLV. 

TO THE SAME. 

I HAVE this moment got the song from 
S***, and I am sorry to see that he has 
spoilt it a good deal. It shall be a lesson 
to me how I lend him any thing again. 

I have sent you Werter, truly happy to 
have any, the smallest opportunity of 
obhging you. 

'Tis true. Madam, I saw you once since 

I was at W ; and that once froze the 

very life-blood of my heart. Your re- 
ception of me was such, that a wretch 
meeting the eye of his judge, about to 
pronounce the sentence of death on him^ 
could only have envied my feelings and 
situation. But I hate the theme, and 
never more shall write or speak on it. 

One thing I shall proudly say, that I 
can pay Mrs. a higher tribute of es- 
teem, and appreciate her amiable worth 
more truly, than any man whom I have 
seen approach her. 



No. CLXVI. 
TO THE SAME. 

I HAVE often told you, my dear friend, 
that you had a spice of caprice in your 
composition, and you have as often disa- 
vowed it: even, perhaps, while your opi- 
nions were, at the moment, irrefragably 
proving it. Could amj thing estrange me 
from a friend such as you ? — No ! To- 
morrow I shall have the honour of wait 
ing on you. 

Farewell thou first of friends, and most 
accomplished of women : even with all 
thy httle caprices ! 



No. CXLVH. 
TO THE SAME. 

MADAM, 

I RETURN your common-place book; 
I have perused it with much pleasure. 



iU 



LETTERS. 



and would have continued my criticisms ; 
but as it seems the critic has forfeited 
your esteem, his strictures must lose their 
value. 

If it is true that " offences come only 
from the heart," before you I am guilt- 
less. To admire, esteem, and prize you, 
as the most accomplished of women, and 
the first of friends — if these are crimes, I 
am the most offending thing alive. 

In a face where I used to meet the kind 
complacency of friendly confidence, now to 
find cold neglect and contemptuous scorn 
— is a wrench that my heart can ill bear. 
It is, however, some kind of miserable 
good luck, that while de haut-en-has rigour 
may depress an unoffending wretch to the 
ground, it has a tendency to rouse a stub- 
born something in his bosom, which, though 
it cannot heal the wounds of his soul, is at 
least an opiate to blunt their poignancy. 

With the profoundest respect for your 
abilities ; the most sincere esteem and ar- 
dent regard for your gentle heart and ami- 
able manners; and the most fervent wish 
and prayer for your welfare, peace, and 
bliss, I have the honour to be. Madam, 
your most devoted, humble servant. 



No. CXLVIII. 

TO JOHN SYME, ESQ. 

You know that, among other high dig- 
nities, you have the honour to be my su- 
preme court of critical judicature, from 
which there is no appeal. I enclose you 
a song which I composed since I saw you, 
and I am going to give you the history of 
it. Do you know, that among much that 
I admire in the characters and manners of 
those great folks whom I have now the 
honour to call my acquaintances, the 
O***** family, there is nothing charms me 
more than Mr. O's. unconcealable attach- 
ment to that incomparable woman. Did 
you ever, my dear Symo, meet with a 
man who owed more to the Divine Giver 
of all good things than Mr. O. A fine 
fortune, a pleasing exterior, self-evident 
amiable dispositions, and an ingenuous 
upright mind, and that informed too, 
much beyond the usual run of young fel- 
lows of his rank and fortune : and to all 



thiB, such a woman ! — but of her I shall 
say nothing at all, in despair of saying any 
thing adequate. In my song, I have en- 
deavoured to do justice to what would be 
his feelings, on seeing, in the scene I have 
drawn, the habitation of his Lucy. As I 
am a good deal pleased with my perform- 
ance, I in my first fervour, thought of 

sending it to Mrs. O ; but on second 

thoughts, perhaps what I offer as the ho- 
nest incense of genuine respect, might, 
from the well-known character of poverty 
and poetry, be construed into some modi- 
fication or other of that servility which 
my soul abhors.* 



No. CXLIX. 
TO MISS 



MADAM, 

Nothing short of a kind of absolute 
necessity could have made me trouble you 
with this letter. Except my ardent and 
just esteem for your sense, taste, and 
worth, every sentiment arising in my 
breast, as I put pen to paper to you, is 
painful. The scenes I have passed with 
the friend of my soul and his amiable con- 
nexions ! the wrench at my heart to think 
that he is gone, for ever gone from me, 
never more to meet in the wanderings of 
a weary world ! and the cutting reflec- 
tion of all that I had most unfortunately, 
though most undeservedly, lost the confi- 
dence of that soul of worth, ere it took 
its flight ! 

These, Madam, are sensations of no 
ordinary anguish. — However, you also 
may be oftended with some imputed im- 
proprieties of mine; sensibility you know 
I possess, and sincerity none will deny 
me. 

To oppose those prejudices which have 
been raised against me, is not the busi- 
ness of this letter. Indeed it is a war- 
fare I know not how to wage. The pow- 
ers of positive vice I can in some degree 
calculate, and against direct malevolence 
I can be on my guard ; but who can esti 

* The song enclosed was that, given in Poenis, page 
116 beginning, 

wat ye who's in yon town 7 &• 



LETTERS. 



185 



mate the fatuity of giddy caprice, or ward 
off the unthinking mischief of precipitate 
folly ? 

1 have a favour to request of you, Ma- 
dam ; and of your sister Mrs. — , through 
your means. You know that, at the wish 
of my late friend, I made a collection of 
all my trifles in verse which I had ever 
written. There are many of them local, 
some of them puerile and silly, and all of 
them, unfit for the public eye. As I have 
some little fame at stake, a fame that I 
trust may live when the hate of those 
" who watch for my halting," and the 
contumelious sneer of those whom acci- 
dent has made my superiors, will, with 
themselves, be gone to the regions of ob- 
livion ; I am uneasy now for the fate of 

those manuscripts. — Will Mrs. have 

the goodness to destroy them, or return 
them to me? As a pledge of friendship 
they were bestowed ; and that circum- 
stance indeed was all their merit. Most 
unhappily for me, that merit they no 
longer possess ; and I hope that Mrs. 

's goodness, which 1 well know, and 

ever will revere, will not refuse this fa- 
vour to a man whom she once held in 
some degree of estimation. 

With the sincerest esteem, 1 have the 
honour to be, Madam, &c. 



No. CL. 
TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

25th February, 1794. 

Canst thou minister to a mind dis- 
eased ? Canst thou speak peace and rest 
to a soul tossed on a sea of troubles, with- 
out one friendly star to guide her course, 
and dreading that the next surge may 
overwhelm her ? Canst thou give to a 
frame, tremblingly alive as the tortures of 
suspense, the stability and hardihood of 
the rock that braves the blast ? If thou 
canst not do the least of these, why 
wouldst thou disturb me in my miseries 
with thy inquiries after me .'' 



For these two months, I have not been 
able to lift a pen. My constitution and 



frame were ab origine, blasted with a 
deep incurable taint of hypochondria, 
which poisons my existence. Of late, a 
number of domestic vexations, and some 
pecuniary share in the ruin of these * * * 
* * times ; losses which, though trifling, 
were yet what I could ill bear, have so ir- 
ritated me, that my feelings at times could 
only be envied by a reprobate spirit lis- 
tening to the sentence that dooms it to 
perdition. 

Are you deep m the language of conso- 
lation ? I have exhausted in reflection 
every topic of comfort. A heart at ease 
would have been charmed with my senti- 
ments and reasonings ; but as to myself, 
I was like Judas Iscariot preaching the 
Gospel : he might melt and mould the 
hearts of those around him, but his own 
kept its native incorrigibility. 

Still there are two great pillars that 
bear us up, amid the wreck of misfortune 
and misery. The one is composed of the 
different modifications of a certain noble, 
stubborn something in man, known by the 
names of courage, fortitude, magnanimi- 
ty. The OTHER is made up of those feel- 
ings and sentiments, which, however the 
sceptic may deny them, or the enthusiast 
disfigure them, are yet, I am convinced, 
original and component parts of the hu- 
man soul : those senses of the mind, if I 
may be allowed the expression, which 
connect us with, and link us to, those aw- 
ful obscure realities — an all-powerful, and 
equally beneficent God ; and a world to 
come, beyond death and the grave. The 
first gives the nerve of combat, while a 
ray of hope beams on the field: — the last 
pours the balm of comfort into the wounds 
which time can never cure. 

I do not remember, my dear Cunning- 
ham, that you and I ever talked on the 
subject of religion at all. I know some 
who laugh at it, as the trick of the crafty 
FEW, to lead the undiscerning many ; or 
at most as an uncertain obscurity, which 
mankind can never know any thing of, 
and with which they are fools if they give 
themselves much to do. Nor would I 
quarrel with a man for his irreligion any 
more than I would for his want of a mu- 
sical ear. I would regret that he was shut 
out from what, to me and to others, were 
such superlative sources of enjoyment. It 
is in this point of view, and for this rea- 
son, that I will deeply imbue the mind of 
every child of mine with religion. If my 



188 



LETTERS. 



Bon should happen to be a man of fcolinjr, 
sentiment, and taste, I shall thus add 
largely to his enjoyments. Let nie flatter 
myself that this sweet little fellow, who 
is just now runninfr about my desk, will 
De a man of a nieUing;, ardent, glowintr 
heart ; and an imairi nation, delighted with 
the painter, and rapt with tlic j)oot. Let 
me tigure him wandering out in a sweet 
evening, to inhale the balmy gales, and en- 
joy the; growing luxuriance of the spring! 
himself the while in the blooming youth 
of life. Ho looks abroad on all nature, 
and through nature up to nature's God. 
His soul, by swift delighting degrees, is 
rapt above tiiis sublunary sphere, until he 
can be silent no longer, and bursts out in- 
to the glorious enthusiasm of Thomson, 

" Tl)(«e, as they change, Almighty Father, those 
Are but the varied God. — The rolling year 
Is lull of thee." 

And so on in all the spirit and ardour 
of that cliarming hymn. 

These are no ideal pleasures ; they arc 
real delights : and I ask what of the de- 
lights among the sons of men arc superior, 
not to say equal, to them? And they 
have this precious, vast addition, that con- 
scious virtue stamps them for her own ; 
and lays hold on them to bring herself in- 
to the presence of a witnessing, judging, 
and approving God. 



No. CLL 

TO MRS. R****. 

Supposes himself to he xoriting from the 
Dead to the Living. 

MA HAM, 

T DAUE say this is the first epistle you 
ever received from this nether world. I 
write you from the regions of Hell, amid 
the norrors of the damned. The time and 
manner of my leaving your earth I do not 
exactly know, as I took my departure in 
the heat of a fever c\' intoxication, con- 
tracted at your too hospitable mansion : 
but, on my arrival here, I was fairly tried 
aud sentenced to endure the purgatorial 



tortures of this infernal confine for the 
space of ninety-nine years, eleven months, 
and twenty-nine days, and all on account 
of the impropriety of my conduct yester- 
night under your roof. Here am I, laid 
on a bed, of pitiless furze, with my aclung 
head reclined on a pillow of ever-piercing 
thorn ; whileaninfernal tormentor, wrink- 
led, and old, and cruel, his name I think 
is lierollectioti, with a whip of scorpions^ 
forbids peace or rest to approach me, and 
keeps anguish eternally awake. Still, 
Madam, if T could in any measure be re- 
instated in the good opinion of the fair 
circle whom my conduct last night so 
much injured, I think it would be an al- 
leviation to my torments. For this rea- 
son I trouble you with this letter. To the 
men of the company I will make no apo- 
logy. — Your husband, who insisted on my 
drinking more than I chose, has no right 
to blame me ; and the other gentlemen 
were partakers of my guilt. But to you. 
Madam, I have much to apologize. Your 
good opinion 1 valued as one of the great- 
est acquisitions I had made on earth, and 
I was truly a beast to forfeit it. Thercs 

was a Miss I , too, a woman of fine 

sense, gentle and unassuming manners — 

do make, on my part, a miserable d d 

wretch's best apology to her. A Mrs. 

G , a charming woman, did me the 

honour to be prejudiced in my favour ; — 
this makes me hope that I have not out- 
raged her beyond all forgiveness. — To all 
the other ladies please present my hum- 
blest contrition for my conduct, and my 
petition for their gracious pardon. O, all 
ye powers of decency and decorum ! whis- 
per to them, that my errors, though great, 
were involuntary — that an intoxicated 
man is the vilest of beasts — that it waa 
not my nature to be brutal to any one 
— that to be rude to a woman, when 
in my senses, was impossible with me— 
hut- 



Regret ! Remorse! Shame! ■^ , rnree 
hell-hounds that ever dog my steps and 
bay at rny heels, spare me ! spare me ! 

Forgive the oirences, and pity the per- 
dition of, 

Madam, 
Your humble slave. 



LETTERS. 



18 



No. CLII. 



TO MRS. DUNLOP. 



5lh December, 1795. 

MV DEAR, FHIEND, 

As I am in a complete Dccemberish 
humour, gloomy, sullen, stupid, as oven 
the doity of Dulness herself could wish, I 
shall not drawl out a heavy letter with a 
number of heavier apologies for my late 
silence. Only one I shall mention, be- 
cause I know you will sympathize in it : 
these four months, a sweet little girl, my 
youngest child, has been so ill, that every 
day, a week or less, threatened to termi- 
nate her existence. There had much 
need be many pleasures annexed to the 
states of husband and father, for God 
knows, they have many peculiar cares. I 
cannot describe to you the anxious, sleep- 
less hours, these ties frequently give me. 
I see a train of helpless little folks ; me 
and my exertions all their stay ; and on 
what a brittle thread does the life of man 
hang ! 1 f 1 am nipt off at the command of 
Fate, even in all the vigour of manhood 
as I am — such tilings happen every day — 
gracious God ! what would become of my 
little Hock ! 'Tis here that I envy your 
people of fortune ! A father on his death- 
bed, taking an everlasting leave of his 
children, has indeed wo enough ; but the 
man of competent fortune leaves his sons 
and (laughters independency and friends ; 
while 1 — but I shall run distracted if I 
think any longer on the subject! 

To leave talking of the matter so grave- 
ly, I shall sing with the old Scots ballad — 

" O that [ had ne'er been married 

I would never lind nae care ; 
Now I've gotten wife and bairns, 

They cry crowdie ! evermair. 

Crowd le ! ance ! crowdie twice; 

Crowdie ! three times in a day : 
An ye crowdie ony mair, 

Ve'll crowdie a' my meal away." 



December 24th, 

We liavc had a brilliant theatre here 
this season ; only, as all other business 
has, it experiences a stagnation of trade 
A a 2 



from the epidemical complaint of the 
country, want of cash. I mention our the- 
atre merely to lug in an occasional Ad- 
dress which I wrote for the benefit night 
of one of the actresses, and which is as 
follows.* 

25</t, Christmas Morning. 

This my much-loved friend is a morn- 
ing of wishes ; accept mine — so heaven 
hear me as they are sincere ! that bless- 
ings may attend your steps, and aflliction 
know you not ! in the charming words of 
my favourite author. The Man of Feeling , 
" May the Great Spirit bear up the weight 
of thy gray hairs, and blunt the arrow that 
brings them rest !" 

Now that I talk of authors, how do you 
like Cowpcr ? Ts not the Task a glorious 
poem .' The religion of the Task, bating 
a few scraps of Calvinistic divinity, is the 
religion of God and Nature ; the religion 
that exalts, that ennobles man. Were not 
you to send me your Zeluco, in return for 
mine .'' Tell me how you like my marks 
and notes through the book. I would not 
give a farthing for a book, unless I were 
at liberty to blot it with my criticisms. 

I have lately collected, for a friend's 
perusal, all my letters. I mean those 
which I first sketched in a rough draught, 
and afterwards wrote out fair. On look- 
ing over some old musty papers, which, 
from time to time, I had parcelled by, aa 
trash that were scarce worth preserving, 
and which yet at the same time 1 did not 
care to destroy ; I discovered many of 
these rude sketches, and have written and 
am writing them out, in a bound MS for 
my friend's library. As I wrote always 
to you the rhapsody of the moment, I can- 
not find a single scroll to you, except one» 
about tiie commencement of our acquaint- 
ance. If there were any possible con- 
veyance, I would send you a perusal of 
my book. 



No. CLIII. 



TO MRS. DUNLOP, IN LONDON 

Dumfries^ 20th December, 1795 

I HAVE been prodigiously disappoint- 
ed in this London journey of yours, la 



• The Address is given in p. 104, of the Pooms 



188 



LETTERS. 



the first plnce, when your last to me 
reached Dumtrios, I was in the country, 
and did not rol urn nntil too late to answer 
your letter ; in the next place, I thougiit 
you would certainly take tiiis route ; and 
now 1 know n(^t what is become of you, 
or wlu^ther this may reach you at all.^ 
God {>;raut that it may find you and yours 
in prospering health and good spirits ! Do 
let me hear from you the soonest possible. 

As I hope to get a frank from my friend 
Captain Miller, I shall every leisure hour, 
take uj) the pen, and gossip away what- 
ever comes first, prose or poesy, sermon or 
song. In this last article I have abound- 
ed of late. I have often mentioned to 
yon a superb publication of Scottish songs 
which is making its appearance in your 
great metropolis, and where I have the 
honour to preside over the Scottish verse 
as no less a personage than Peter I'indar 
docs over the Englisli. I wrote the fol- 
lowing for a favourite air. See the Song 
"ntiilcd, Lord Gregonj, Poems, p. 87. 

December 29th. 

Since I began this letter, I have been 
appointed to act in the capacity of super- 
visor here : and I assure you, what with 
the load of business, and what with that 
hnsiness being new to me, I could scarcely 
liave commanded ten minutes to have 
sj)oken )o you, had you been in town, 
nnich less to have written yon an epistle. 
Tiiis appointment is only temporary, and 
during the illness of the present incum- 
bent; but 1 look forward to an early pe- 
riod when 1 shall be appointed in full 
form ; a consummation devoutly to be 
wished ! My political sins seem to be for- 
given me. 



This is the season (New-year's day is 
now my date) of wishuig ; and mine arc 
most fervently offered up for you ! May 
life to you be a positive blessing while it 
lasts for your own sake; and that it may 
yet bo greatly prolonged, is my wish for 
my own sake, and for the sake of the rest 
of your friends ! What a transient busi- 
ness is life ! Very lately I was a boy ; 
but t'other day I was a young man ; and 
1 already begin to feel tlie rigid fibre and 
stiffening joints of old age comnig fast 
o'er my frame. With all my follies of 
ynuth, and, I feav, a few vices of man- 
hood, still I congratulate myself on hav- 



ing had, in early days, religion strongly im- 
pressed on my mind. I have nothing to 
say to any one as to which sect he be- 
longs to, or what creed he believes ; but 
I look on the man, who is firmly persuad- 
ed of infinite Wisdom and Goodness su- 
perintending and directing every circum- 
stance that can happen in* his lot — I feli- 
citate such a nmn as having a solid foun- 
dation for his mental enjoyment ; a firm 
prop and sure stay in the hour of dilficul 
ty, trouble, and distress : and a never 
failing anchor of hope, when he looks bo 
yond the grave. 

January 12</i 

Yon will have seen our worthy and in- 
genious friend the Doctor, long ere this. 
1 hope he is well, and beg to be remem- 
bered to him. I liave just been reading 
over again, I dare say for the hundred 
and fiftieth time, his Vino nf Socictij and 
Mdnntrn ,- and still I read it with delight. 
His luunour is perfectly original — it is 
neither the humour of Addison, nor Swift, 
nor Sterne, nor of any body b\it Dr. 
Moore. By the by, yon have deprived 
mo of Zehico ; remember that, when yov: 
arc disposed to rake up the sins of my 
neglect from among the ushcs of my lazi- 
ness. 

lie has paid mo a pretty compliment, 
by quoting me in his last publication.* 



No. CLIV. 
TO MRS. R*****. 

20fh Januaiy, 1796. 

I CANNOT express my gratitude to you 
for allowing me a longer perusal oi\4na- 
rliar.fi.i. In fact T never met with a book 
that bewiteiied me so nnieh ; and I, as a 
member of the library, must warmly feel 
the obligation you have laid us under. 
Indeed to me, the obligation is stronger 
than to any other individual of our socie- 
ty ; as Jlnacltarsix is an indispensable de 
sideratuni to a son of the Muses. 

The health yon wished me in your 
morning's card, is I think, fiown from me 
for ever. I have not been able to leave 
my bed to-day till about an hour ago. 

• Edward. 



LETTERS. 



189 



These wickedly unlucky advertisements 
J lent (I did wrong) to a friend, and I am 
ill able to go in quest of him. 

The Muses have not quite forsaken me. 
The following detached stanzas I intend 
to interweave in some disastrous tale of a 
ehepherd. 



No. CLV. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

3\st January, 1796. 

These many months you have been 
two packets in my debt — what sin of ig- 
norance I have committed against so 
highly valued a friend I am utterly at a 
loss to guess. Alas ! Madam ! ill can I 
afford, at this time, to be deprived of any 
of the small remnant of my pleasures. I 
have lately drunk deep of the cup of af- 
fliction. The autumn robbed me of my 
only daughter and darling child, and that 
at a distance too, and so rapidly, as to put 
it out of my power to pay the last duties 
to her. I had scarcely begun to recover 
from that shock, when I became myself 
the victim of a most severe rheumatic fe- 
ver, and long the die spun doubtful ; un- 
til, after many weeks of a sick bed, it 
seems to have turned up life, and I am be- 
ginning to crawl across my room, and 
once indeed have been before my own 
door in the street. 

When pleasure fascinates the mental sight, 

Affliction purifies the visual ray, 
Religion hails the drear, the untried night. 

And shuts, for ever shuts, life's doubtful day! 



No. CLVI. 

TO MRS. R*****, 

Who had desired him to go to the Birth- 
Day Assembly on that day to show 
his loyalty. 

4th June, 1796. 

T AM in such miserable health as to be 
utterly incapable of showing my loyalty 
in any way. Racked as I am with rheu- 
matisms, I meet every face with a greet- 



ing, like that of Balak to Balaam — " Come, 
curse me Jacob ; and come, defy me 
Israel !" So say I — come, curse me that 
east wind : and come, defy me the north ! 
Would you have me in such circumstaa 
ces, copy you out a love song.'' 



I may, perhaps, see you on Saturday, 
but I will not be at the ball. — Why should 
I ! " Man delights not me, nor woman 
either ?" Can you supply me with the 
song, Let us all be unhappy together — 
do if you can, and oblige le pauvre mise* 
rahle 

R. B. 



No. CLVII. 

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

Brow, Sea-bathing Quarters, 1th July, 
1796. 

MY DEAR CUNNINGHAM, 

I RECEtvED yours here this moment, 
and am indeed highly flattered with the 
approbation of the literary circle you men- 
tion ; a literary circle inferior to none in 
the two kingdoms. Alas ! my friend, I 
fear the voice of the bard will soon be 
heard among you no more ? For these 
eight or ten months I have been ailing, 
sometimes bedfast, and sometimes not ; 
but these last three months, I have been 
tortured with an excruciating rheumatism, 
which has reduced me to nearly the last 
stage. You actually would not know me 
if you saw me. — Pale, emaciated, and so 
feeble as occasionally to need help from 
my chair ! my spirits fled ! fled ! — but I 
can no more on the subject — only the 
medical folks tell me that my last and 
only chance is bathing, and country quar- 
ters, and riding. — The deuce of the mat- 
ter is this ; when an exciseman is off" duty, 
his salary is reduced to £35 instead of 
£50. — What way, in the name of thrift, 
shall I maintain myself, and keep a horse 
in country quarters — with a wife and five 
children at home, on £35 ? I mention 
this, because I had intended to beg your 
utmost interest, and that of all the friends 
you can muster, to move our Commission- 
ers of Excise to grant me the full salary 
— I dare say you know them all person- 
ally. If they do not grant it me. I must 
lay my account with an exit truly ai/ioetej 



190 



LETTERS. 



if I die not of disease, I must perish with 
hunger. 

I have sent you one of the songs; the 
other my memory does not serve me with, 
and I have no copy here ; but I shall be 
at bome soon, when I will send it to you. 
— A-propos to being at home, Mrs. Burns 
tlireatens in a week or two to add one 
more to my paternal charge, which, if of 
the right gender, I intend shall be intro- 
duced to the world by the respectable 
designation of Alexander Cunningham 
Burns. My last was James Glencairn, 
BO you can have no objection to the com- 
pany of nobility. Farewell! 



No. CLVIII. 
TO MRS. BURNS 



Brow, Thursday. 

MY DEAREST LOVE, 

I DELAYED Writing until I could tell 
you what effect sea-bathing was likely to 
produce. It would be injustice to deny 
that it has eased my pains, and I think, 
has strengthened me ; but my appetite is 
still extremely bad. No flesh nor fish 
can I swallow ; porridge and milk are the 
only thing I can taste. I am very happy 
to hear, by Miss Jess Lewars, that you 
are all well. My very best and kindest 
compliments to her, and to all the chil- 
dren. I will see you on Sunday. Your 
aflectionate husband. 

R. B. 



No CLIX. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP 



Brow, nth July, nm. 



MADAM, 



I HAVE written you so often without 
receiving any answer, that I would not 
trouble you again, but for the circum- 
stances in which I am. An illness which 
has long hung about me, in all probability 
will speedily send me beyond that bourn 
whence no traveller returns. Your friend- 
ship, with which for many years you ho- 
noured me was a friendship dearest to 
my soul. Your conversation, and espe- 
cially your correspondence, were at once 
highly entertainuig and instructive. Witn 
what pleasure did I use to break up the 
seal ! The remembrance yet adds one 
pulse more to my poor palpitating heart 
Farewell ! ! !* 

R. B. 



* The above is supposed to b? tlie last production of 
Robert Burns, wtioijied on the 21st of the month, ninj 
days afterwards. He liad, however, the pleasure of 
receiving a satisfactory explanation of his friend's si- 
lence, and an assurance of the continuanceof herfriend- 
ship to his widow and children ; an assurance that has 
been amply fulfilled. 

It is probable that the greater part of her letters to 
him were destroyed by our Bard about the time that this 
last was written. He did not foresee that his own let- 
ters to her were to appear in print, nor conceive the 
disappointment that will be felt, that a few ol this ex- 
cellent lady's have not served to enrich and adorn tlio 
coUeciion. K. 



191 



CORRESPONDENCE 



im^ mm^ 



Tw^^mmm, 



FREFACZ:. 



The remaining part of this Volume, consists principally of the Correspondent'^ 
between Mr. Burns and Mr. Thomson, on the subject of the beautiful Work pro- 
'ected and executed by the latter, the nature of which is explained in the first num- 
ber of the following series.* The undertaking of Mr. Thomson, is one in which 
the Public may be congratulated in various points of view ; not merely as having 
collected the finest of the Scottish songs and airs of past times, but as having given 
occasion to a number of original songs of our Bard, which equal or surpass the for- 
mer eflTorts of the pastoral muses of Scotland, and which, if we mistake not, maybe 
safely compared with the lyric poetry of any age or country. The letters of Mr. 
Burns to Mr. Thomson include the songs he presented to him, some of which appear 
in different stages of their progress ; and these letters will be found to exhibit occa- 
sionally his notions of song-writing, and his opinions on various subjects of taste and 
criticism. These opinions, it will be observed, were called forth by the observations 
of his correspondent, Mr. Thomson; and without the letters of this'gentleman, those 
of Burns would have been often unintelligible. He has therefore yielded to the 
earnest request of the Trustees of the family of the poet, to suffer them to appear 
in their natural order ; and, independently of the illustration they give to the letters 
of our Bard, it is not to be doubted that their intrinsic merit will ensure them a re- 
ception from the public, far beyond what Mr. Thomson's modesty would permit him 
to suppose. The whole of this correspondence was arranged for the press by JNIr. 
Thomson, and has been printed with little addition or variation. 

To avoid increasing the bulk of the work unnecessarily, we have in general re- 
ferred the reader for the Song to the page in the Poems where it occurs ; and havo 
given the verses entire, only when they differ in some respects from the adopt- 
ed set. 



No. I. 
MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

Edinburgh, September, 1792. 



For some years past, I have with a 
friend or two, employed many leisure 
hours in selecting and collating the most 



favourite of our national melodies for pub- 
lication. We have engaged Pleyel, the 
most agreeable composer living, to put 
accompaniments to these, and also to 
compose an instrumental prelude and con- 
clusion to each air, the better to fit them 
for concerts, both public and private. 
To render this work perfect, we aro 
desirous to have the poetry improved; 
wherever it seems unworthy of the music , 



* This work is entitled, " A Selfct Collection of orisinal Scottish Airs for the Voice: to whirh arc added 
[iitro'iuctory and ConcUulinp Synijilioiiies and Acconipanimenis for the Piano Forte and Violin by Pleyel auJ 
zeluch; witli select and characteristic Verses, by the most adniiied Scottish Poets," &.c. 



192 



LETTERS. 



and that is so in many instances, is allow- 
ed by every one conversant with our mu- 
sical collections. The editors of these 
seem in general to have depended on the 
music proving an excuse for the verses : 
and hence, some charming melodies are 
united to mere nonsense and doggerel, 
while others are accommodated witli 
rhymes so loose and indelicate, as cannot 
be sung in decent company. To remove 
this reproach would be an easy task to 
the author of The Cotter's Sntiirdai/ JVigh t ; 
and, for the honour of Caledonia, I would 
fain hope he may be induced to take up 
the pen. If so, we sliall be enabled to 
present the public with a collection infi- 
nitely more interesting than any that has 
yet appeared, and acceptable to all per- 
sons of taste, whether they wish for cor- 
rect melodies, delicate accompa^niments, 
or characteristic verses. — We will esteem 
your poetical assistance a particular fa- 
vour, besides paying any reasonable price 
you shall please to demand for it. Profit 
is quite a secondary consideration with us, 
and we are resolved to spare neither pains 
nor expense on the publication. Tell me 
frankly, then, whetiier yon will devote 
your leisure to writing twenty or twenty- 
five songs, suited to the particular melo- 
dies which T am prepared to send you. 
A few songs, exceptionable only in some 
of their venses, I will likewise submit to 
your consideration ; leaving it to you, 
either to mend these, or make new songs 
in their stead. It is superfluous to assure 
you that I have no intention to displace 
any of the sterling old songs ; tliose only 
will be removed, wliich appear quite silly, 
or absolutely indecent. Even these shall 
all be examined by Mr. Rurn«, and if lie 
is of opinion that any of them are deserv- 
ing of the music, in such cases no divorce 
shall take place. 

Relying on the letter accompanying 
this, to be forgiven for the liberty I have 
taken in addressing you, I am, with groat 
esteem, Sir, your most obedient humble 
servant, 

G. THOMSON. 



No. II. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

Dumfries, \Qtk September, 1792. 

SIR, 

I HAVE just this moment got your 
letter. As the request you make to me 



will positively add to my enjoyments m 
complying with it, I shall enter into your 
undertaking with all the small portion of 
abilities I have, strained to their utmost 
exertion by the impulse of enthusiasm. 
Only, don't hurry me : " Deil tak the 
hindmost," is by no means the cri de 
i^ucrre of my muse. Will you, as I am 
inferior to none of you in enthusiastic at- 
tachment to the poetry and music of old 
Caledonia, and, since you request it, have 
cheerfully promised my mite of assistance 
— will you let me have a list of your airs, 
with the first line of the printed verses 
you intend for them, that I may have an 
opportunity of suggesting any alteration 
that may occur to me. You know 'tis in 
the way of my trade ; still leaving you, 
gentlemen, the undoubted right of pub- 
lishers, to approve, or reject, at your 
pleasure, for your own publication. A- 
propos ! if you are for Ens;lish verses, 
there is, on my part, an end of the matter. 
Whether in the simplicity of the ballad, or 
the pathos of the song, I can only hope 
to please myself in being allowed at least 
a sprinkling of our native tongue. En- 
glisii verses, particularly the works of 
Scotsmen, that have merit, are certainly 
very eligible. Ticeeds-ide — J3h, the poor 
shepherd's mournful fate — Ah, Chloris 
could I now hut sit. Sic. you cannot mend ; 
but such insipid stufl' as, To Fanny fair 
could 1 impart, &c. usually set to The 
Mill J\Iill O, is a disgrace to the collec- 
tion in which it has already appeared, and 
would doubly disgrace a collection that 
will have the very superior nierit of yours. 
But more of this in the farther prosecu- 
tion of the business, if I am called on for 
my strictures and amendments — I say, 
amendments : for I will not alter except 
where I myself at least think that I 
amend. 

As to any remuneration, you may think 
my songs either above or below price; 
for they shall absolutely be the one or the 
other. In the honest enthusiasm with 
which I embark in your undertakii/g, to 
talk of money, wages, fee, hire,&c. would 
be downright prostitution of soul .' A proof 
of each of the songs that I compose or 
amend, I shall receive as a favour. In 
the rustic phrase of the season, "• Gude 
speed the wark !" 

I am. Sir, your very humble servant, 
R. BURNS. 

P. S. I have come particular reasons 
for wishing my interference to be known 
as little as possible. 



LETTERS. 



19.. 



No. III. 



MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

Edinburgh, ISth October, 1792. 

DEAR SIR, 

I RECEIVED, with much satisfaction, 
your pleasant and obliging letter, and I 
return my warmest acknowledgments for 
the enthusiasm with which you have en- 
tered into our undertaking. We have 
now no doubt of being able to produce a 
collection highly deserving of public at- 
tention in all respects. 

I agree with you in thinking English 
verses that have merit, very eligible, 
wherever new verses are necessary ; be- 
cause the English becomes every year 
more and more the language of Scotland; 
but if you mean that no English verses, 
except those by Scottish authors, ouglit 
to be admitted, I am half inclined to differ 
from you. I should consider it unpardon- 
able to sacrifice one good song in the 
Scottish dialect, to make room for Eng- 
lish verses; but if we can select a few 
excellent ones suited to the unprovided 
or ill-provided airs, would it not be the 
very bigotry of literary patriotism to re- 
ject such, merely because the authors 
were born south of the Tweed ? Our 
sweet air, Jihj Jfannie O, which in the 
collections is joined to the poorest stuff 
that Allan Ramsay ever wrote, beginning. 
While some for pleasure pawn their health, 
answers so finely to Dr. Percy's beautiful 
song, O, J^ancy wilt thou go with me, that 
one would think he wrote it on purpose 
for the air. However, it is not at all our 
wish to confine you to English verses ; 
you shall freely be allowed a sprinkling of 
your native tongue, as you elegantly ex- 
press it : and moreover, we will patiently 
wait your own time. One thing only I beg, 
which is, that however gay and sportive 
the muse maybe, she may always be de- 
cent. Lcthernotwrite what beauty would 
blush to speak, nor wound that charmmg 
delicacy which forms the most precious 
dowry of our daughters. I do not con- 
ceive the song to be the most proper ve- 
hicle for witty and brilliant conceits ; 
simplicity, I believe, should be its pro- 
minent feature ; but, in some of our songs, 
the writers have confounded simplicity 
with coarseness and vulgarity ; although 
between the one and the other, as Dr. 
Bealtie well observes, there is as great a 
dilTeronce as between a plain suit of clothes 



and a bundle of rags. The humorous 
ballad, or pathetic complaint, is best suit- 
ed to our artless melodies ; and more in- 
teresting, indeed, in all songs, than the 
most pointed wit, dazzling descriptions^ 
and flowery fancies. 

With these trite observations, I send 
you eleven of the songs, for which it i3 
my wish to substitute others of your wri- 
ting. I shall soon transmit the rest, and, 
at the same time, a prospectus of the 
whole collection : and you may believe 
we will receive any hints that you are so 
kind as to give for improving the work, 
with the greatest pleasure and thankful- 
ness. 

I remain, dear Sir, &-c 



No. IV. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

MY DEAR SIR, 

Let me tell you, that you are too 
fastidious in your ideas of songs and bal- 
lads. I own that your criticisms are just; 
the songs you specify in your li^t have 
all, hut one, the faults you remark in them ; 
but who shall mend the matter ? Who 
shall rise up and say — Go to, I will make 
a better ? For instance, on reading over 
the Lea-rig, I immediately set about try- 
ing my hand on it, and, after all, T could 
make nothing more of it than the fol- 
lowing, which. Heaven knows is poor 
enough : 

When o'er the hill the eastern star. 

Tells bughtin time is near my jo ; 
And ovvsen frae the furrow'd field. 

Return sae dowf and weary O ; 
Down by the burn, where scented birks* 

Wi' dew are hanging clear, my jo, 
I'll meet thee on the lea-rig, 

My ain kind dearie O. 

In mirkest glen, at midnight hour, 

I'd rove, and ne'er be eerie O, 
If thro' thnt glen I gaed to thee, 

My ain kind dearie O. 
Altho' the night were ne'er sae wild,f 

And I were ne'er sae wearie O, 
I'd meet thee on the lea-rig, 

My ain kind dearie O. 

* For "scented birks," in some copies, "l)irken 
buds." E. 

t In the copy tranamllted to Mr Tliomsoti, instead 



194 



LETTERS. 



Your observation as to the aptitude of 
Dr. Percy's ballad to the air J^annie O, 
is just. It is besides, perhaps, the most 
beautiful ballad in the English language. 
But let me remark to you, that, in the 
sentiment and style of our Scottish airs, 
there is a pastoral simplicity, a something 
that one may call the Doric style and dia- 
,ect of vocal music, to virhich a dash of 
our native tongue and manners is parti- 
cularly, nay peculiarly apposite. For 
this reason, and, upon my honour, for this 
reason alone, I am of opinion (but, as I 
told you before, my opinion is yours, freely 
yours, to approve, or reject, as you please) 
that my ballad of J^annie O, might, per- 
haps, do for one set of verses to the tune. 
Now don't let it enter into your head, that 
you are under any necessity of taking my 
verses. I have long ago made up my 
mind as to my own reputation in the busi- 
ness of authorship ; and have nothing to 
be pleased or offended at, in your adop- 
tion or rejection of my verses. Though 
you should reject one half of what I give 
you, I shall be pleased with your adopting 
the other half, and shall continue to serve 
you with the same assiduity. 



In the printed copy of my JCannie O, 
the name of the river is horridly prosaic. 
I will alter it, 



" Behind yon hills where Lugar flows" 

Girvan is the name of the river that 
suits the idea of the stanza best, but Lu- 
gar is the most agreeable modulation of 
syllables. 



of wiliy was Inserted vset. But in one of the manu- 
scripts, probably written afterwards, wet was changed 
into wild ; evidently a great Improvement. The lovers 
might meet on the lea-rig, " although the night were 
ne'er so jci'W," that is, altlionghthesummpr-windblew, 
the sky lowered, and the thunderniurmured ; such cir- 
cunistaiiccs misht render their meeting still more inte- 
resting. l!ut if the night were actually wet, why should 
lliey meet on thelea-iigl On a wet night the imagina- 
tion cannot contemplate their situation there with any 
complacency. — Tibullus, and, after him, Hammond, 
lias conceived a happier situation for loveis on a wet 
night. Probably Burns bad in his mind the verse of an 
old Scottish Song, in wliieli wet and weary are natu- 
rally enough conjoined. 

" When my ploughman comes hamc at cv'n 

He's often wet and weary; 
Cast olf the wet, put on the dry, 

And gae to bod my deary." 



I will soon give you a great many mor 
remarks on this business ; but I have just 
now an opportunity of conveying you this 
scrawl, free of postage, an expense that 
it is ill able to pay : so, with my best 
compliments to honest Allan, Good bo 
wi' ye, &c. 

Friday night. 



Saturday morning. 

As I find I have still an hour to spare 
this morning before my conveyance goes 
away, I will give you Jfannie O, at length. 
See Poems, p. 56. 



Your remarks on Ewe-btights, JSIarion, 
are just: still it has obtained a plac« 
among our more classical Scottish Songs 
and what with many beauties in its com- 
position, and more prcJHdices in its fa- 
vour, you will not find it easy to sup- 
plant it. 



In my very early years, when I was 
thinking of going to the West Indies, I 
took the following farewell of a dear girl. 
It is quite trifling, and has nothing of the 
merits of Eioe-biights ; but it will fill up 
this page. You must know, that all my 
earlier love-songs were the breathings of 
ardent passion : and though it might have 
been easy in after-times to have given 
them a polish, yet that polish, to me, 
whose they were, and who perhaps alone 
cared for them, would have defaced the 
legend of my heart, which was so faith- 
fully inscribed on them. Their uncouth 
simplicity was, as they say of wines, their 
race. 

Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, 
And leave auld Scotia's shore.' 

See Poems, p. 85. 

Gnlla Water, and .^uld Rob JTorris, 1 
think, will most probably be the noxt sub 
ject of my musings. However, even on 
mr/ verses, speak out your criticisms with 
equal frankness. My wish is, not to stand 
nloof, the uncomplying bigot of opi?i/a/rf/e, 
but cordially to join issue with you in the 
furtherance of tlie work. 



LETTERS. 



195 



No. V. 



MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 



^' J^ovember Qth, 1192. 

If you mean, my dear Sir, that all the 
pon^s ill your collection shall be poetry 
of' the first merit, I am afraid you will find 
more difficulty in the undertaking than you 
are aware of. There is a peculiar rhyth- 
mus in many of our airs, and a necessity 
of adapting syllables to the emphasis, or 
wliat T would call the J'eature notes of the 
tune, that cramp the poet, and lay him 
under almost insuperable difficulties. For 
instance, in the air, J\fi/ vtife's a wanton 
wee thing, if a few lines smooth and pretty 
can be adapted to it, it is all you can ex- 
pect. The following were made extem- 
pore to it, and though, on further study, 
I miglit give you something more pro- 
found, yet it miglit not suit the light-horse 
gallop of the air so well as this random 
clink 



MY WIFE'S A WINSOME WEE 
THING. 

She is a winsome wee thing, 
She is a handsome wee thing, 

See Poems, p. 35. 

I have just been looking over the Col- 
lier's honnie Dorhter ; and if the following 
rhapsody, which I composed the other 
day, on a charming Ayrshire girl. Miss 

, as she passed through this place to 

England, will suit your taste better than 
the Collier Lassie, fall on and welcome. 

O SAW ye bonnie Lesley 

As she gaed o'er ihe border ? 

See Potftns, p. 85. 



1 have hitherto deferred the sublimer, 
more pathetic airs, until more leisure, as 
they will take, and deserve, a greater ef- 
fort. However, thoy are all put into 
your hands, as clay into the hands of the 
P'jttpr, to make one vessel to honour, and 
another to dishonour. Farewell, &.c. 
B b 



No. VI. 

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

Inclosing the Song on Highland Mary. 
See Poems, p. 85. 

I4th JVovember, 1792. 

MY DEAR SIR, 

I AGREE with you that the song, Ka- 
tharine Ogie, is very poor stuff", and un- 
worthy, altogether unworthy, of so beau- 
tiful an air. I tried to mend it, but the 
awkwaid sound Ogie recurring so often 
in the rhyme, spoils every attempt at in- 
trodacing sentiment into the piece. The 
foregoing song pleases myself; I think it 
is in my Jiappiest manner ; you will see 
at first glance that it suits the air. The 
subject of the song is one of the most in- 
teresting passages of my youthful days ; 
and I own that I should be much flattered 
to see the verses set to an air, which would 
ensure celebrity. Perhaps, after all, 'tis 
the still glowing prejudice of my heart, 
that throws a borrowed lustre over the 
merits of the composition. 

I have partly taken your idea of Auld 
Rob Morris. I have adopted the two first 
verses, and am going on with the song 
on a new plan, which promises pretty well. 
I take up one or another, just as the bee 
of the moment buzzes in my bonnet-lug; 
and do you, sans ceremonie, make what 
use you choose of the productions. 
Adieu ! &c. 



No. VII. 
MR. THOMSON TO xMR. BURNS 
Edinburgh, JSTovembcr, 1792. 

DEAR SIR, 

I WAS just going to write to you that 
on meeting with your Jfannie I had fallen 
violently in love with her. I thank you, 
therefore for sending the charming rustic 
to me, in the dress you wish her to appear 
before the public. She does you great 
credit, and will soon be admitted into the 
best company. 

1 regret that your song for the Lea-rig 
is BO short ; the air is easy, soon sunjf, 



196 



LETTERS. 



and very pleasing ; so that, if the singer 
stops at the end of two stanzas, it is a 
pleasure lost ere it is well possessed. 

Although a dash of our native tongue 
and manners is doubtless peculiarly con- 
genial and appropriate to our melodies, 
yet I shall be able to present a consider- 
able number of the very Flowers of Eng- 
lish Song, well adapted to those melodies, 
which in England at least will be the 
means of recommending them to still 
greater attention than they have procured 
there. But you will observe, my plan is, 
that every air shall, in the first place, have 
verses wholly by Scottish poets: and that 
those of English writers shall follow as 
additional songs, for the choice of the 
singer. 

What you say of the Ewe-bughts is just; 
I admire it and never meant to supplant 
it. All I requested was, that you would 
try your hand on some of the inferior 
stanzas, which are apparently no part of 
the original song : but this I do not urge, 
because the song is of sufficient length 
though those inferior stanzas be omitted, 
as they will be by the singer of taste. 
You must not think I expect a/Z the songs 
to be of superlative merit ; that were an 
unreasonable expectation. I am sensible 
that no poet can sit down doggedly to pen 
verses, and succeed well at all times. 

I am highly pleased v/ith your humour- 
ous and amorous rhapsody on Bonnie Les- 
lie ; it is a thousand times better than the 
Collieys Lassie. " The deil he could na 
scaith thee," &c. is an eccentric and hap- 
py thought. Do you not think, however, 
that the names of such old heroes os Alex- 
ander, sound rather queer, unless in pom- 
pous or mere burlesque verse ? Instead 
of the line " And never made another," 
I would humbly suggest, " And ne'er 
made sic anither ;" and I would fain have 
you substitute some other line for " Re- 
turn to Caledonia," in the last verse, be- 
cause I think this alteration of the ortho- 
graphy, and of the sound of Caledonia, 
disfigures the word, and renders it Hudi- 
brastic. 

Of the other song, J\Ti/ wife's a winsome 
wee thi/i^-, I think the first eight lines very 
good, but T do not admire the other eight, 
because four of them are a bare repetition 
of the first ver ;i» I have been trymg to 
spin a stan/.a. f u, :ould make notliing bet- 



ter than the followmg : do you mend it^ 
or, as Yorick did with the love-letter, 
whip it up in your own way. 

O leeze me on my wee thing; 
My bonnie blythsome wee thing ; 
Sae lang's 1 hae my wee thing, 
I'll think my lot divine. 

Tho' warld's care we share o't, 
And may see meickle mair o't ; 
Wi' her I'll blithely bear it, 
And ne'er a word repine. 

You perceive my dear Sir, I avail nij 
self of the liberty which you condescend 
to allow me, by speaking freely what I 
think. Be assured it is not my disposi- 
tion to pick out the faults of any poem or 
picture I see : my first and chief object is 
to discover and be delighted with the 
beauties of the piece. If I sit down to ex- 
amine critically, and at leisure, what per- 
haps you liave written in haste, I may 
happen to observe careless lines, the re- 
perusal of which might lead you to im- 
prove them. The wren \vill often see 
what has been overlooked by the eagle. 
I remain yours faithfully, &c. 

P. S. Your verses upon Highland Mary 
are just come to hand : they breathe the 
genuine spirit of poetry, and, like the mu- 
sic, will last for ever. Such verses united 
to such an air, with the delicate harmony 
of Pleyel superadded, might form a treat 
worthy of being presented to Apollo him 
self. I have heard the sad story of yoiir 
Mary : you always seem inspired when 
you write of her. 



No. VIII. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

Dumfries, 1st December, 1792. 

Your alteration's of my JVannie O are 
perfectly right. So are those of .Vy 
wife's a icanton wee thing. Your altera- 
tion of the second stanza is a positive im- 
provement. Now, my dear Sir, with the 
freedom which characterizes our corres- 
pondence, I must not, cannot, alter Bon- 
nie Leslie You are right, the word, 
" Alexarder" makes the line a little un- 
couth, but I think the thought is pretty. 
Of Alexander, beyond all other heroes, il 



LETTERS. 



197 



may be said in the sublime languajfe of 
Scripture, that "he went forth conquer- 
ing and to conquer." 



" For Nature madu her what she is, 
And never made anither." (Such a person as she is) 



This is in my opinion more poetical 
than " Ne'er made sic anither." How- 
ever, it is immaterial ; make it either way.* 
" Caledonie," I agree with you, is not so 
good a word as could be wished, though 
t is sanctioned in three or four instances 
by Allan Ramsay : but I cannot help it. 
[n short that species of stanza is the most 
difficult that I have ever tried. 

The Lea-rig is as follows. [Here the 
poet gives the two first stanzas, as before, 
p. 193, with the following in addition.) 

The hunter lo'es the morning sun, 

To rouse the mountain deer, my jo : 
At noon the fisher seeks the glen, 

Along the burn to steer, my jo : 
Gie me the hour o' gloamin gray, 

It maks my heart sae cheeiy O, 
To meet thee on the lea-rig, 

My ain kind dearie, O. 



T am interrupted. 



Yours, &c. 



No. IX. 



MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

Inclosing Auld Rob Morris, and Duncan 
Gray. See Poems, p. 86. 

4th December, 1792. 

The foregoing [Auld Rob Morris and 
Duncan Grai/,) I submit, my dear Sir, to 
your better judgment. Acquit them, or 
condemn them as seemeth good in your 
sight. Duncan Gray is that kind of light- 
horse gallop of an air, which precludes 
sentiment. The ludicrous is its ruling 
feature. 

• Mr. Thomson nns decided on JVeVr made sic ani- 
llitr E. 



No. X 



MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 



With Poortith Cauld and Galla Water 
See Poems, pp. 86, 87. 

January, 1793. 

Many returns of the season to you, 
my dear Sir. How comes on your pub- 
lication ? will these two foregoing be of 
any service to you .' I should like to know 
what songs you print to each tune be- 
sides the verses to which it is set. In 
short, I would wish to give you my opi- 
nion on all the poetry you publish. You 
know it is my trade, and a man in the 
way of his trade, may suggest useful hints, 
that escape men of much superior parts 
and endowments in other things. 

If you meet with my dear and much- 
valued C. greet him in my name, with the 



vaiueu \^. greet iiuii in luy i 
compliments of the season. 



Yours, &c 



No. XI. 



MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

Edinburgh, January 20, 1793. 

You make me happy my dear Sir, and 
thousands will be happy to see the charm- 
ing songs you have sent me. Many mer- 
ry returns of the season to you, and may 
you long continue, among the sons a.nd 
daughters of Caledonia, to dehght them 
and to honour yourself. 

The four last songs with which you fa- 
voured me, viz. Auld Rob Morris, Dun- 
can Gray, Galla Water, and Cauld Kail, 
are admirable. Duncan is indeed a lad of 
grace, and his humour will endear him to 
every body 

The distracted lover in Auld Rob, and 
the happy Shepherdess in Galla Wafer, 
exhibit an excellent contrast : they speak 
from genuine feeling, and powerfully touch 
the heart. 

The number of songs which I had ori- 
ginally in view was limited; but I now 
resolve to include every Scotch air and 



198 



LETTERS. 



song worth singing, leaving none behind 
' but mere gleanings, to which the publisb- 
ers of omnegntherum are welcome. I 
would rather be the editor of a collection 
from whicli nothing could be taken away, 
than of one to whicb nothing could be 
added. We intend presenting the sub- 
scribers with two beautiful stroke en- 
gravings ; the one characteristic of the 
plaintive, and the other of the lively songs ; 
and I have Dr. Beattie's promise of an 
essay upon tlic subject of our national 
music, if his health will permit him to 
write it. As a number of our songs have 
doubtless been called forth by particular 
evrents, or by the charms of peerless dam- 
eels, there must be many curious anec- 
dotes relating to them. 

The late Mr. Tytlcr of Woodhquselee, 
I believie knew more of tliis than any body, 
for he joined to the pursuits of an anti- 
quary a taste for poetry, besides being a 
man of the world, and possessing an en- 
tliusiasm for music beyond most of his 
contemporaries. He was quite pleased 
with this plan of mine, for I may say it 
has been solely managed by me, and we 
had several long conversations about it 
when it was in embryo. If I could sim- 
ply mention the name of the heroine of 
each song, and the incident which occa- 
sioned the verses, it would be gratifying. 
Pray, will you send me any information 
of this sort, as well with regard to your 



To all the favourite songs of the plain- 
tive or pastoral kind, will be joined tlie 
delicate accompaniments, &c. of Pleyel. 
To those of the comic and humorous class, 
I think accompaniments scarcely neces- 
sary ; they are chiefly fitted for the con- 
viviality of the festive board, and a tune- 
ful voice, with a proper delivery of the 
words, renders them perfect. Neverthe- 
less, to these I propose adding bass ac- 
companiments, because then they are fit- 
tod either for singing, or for instrumental 
performance, when tliere happens to be 
no singer. 1 mean to employ our right 
trusty friend Mr. Clarke, to set the bass 
to these, which he assures me he will do 
con nmnrc, and with much greater atten- 
tion tlian he ever bestowed on any thing 
of the kind. But for this last class of airs 
I will not attempt to find more than one 
eet of verses. 

That eccentric bard, Peter Pindar, has 
started I knov/not how many dilhculties, 



about writing for the airs I sent to hini, 
because of tlie peculiarity of their mea- 
sure, and the trammels they impose on 
his flying Pegasus. I subjoin for your 
perusal the only one I have yet got from 
him, being for the fine air " Lord Grego- 
ry." The Scots verses printed with tliat 
air, are taken from the middle of an old 
ballad, called The Lass of Lorhroyan, 
which I do not admire. I liave set down 
the air therefore as a creditor of yours. 
Many of the Jacobite songs are replete 
with wit and Inmiour, migiit not the best of 
these be included in our volume of comic 
songs ^ 



POSTSCRIPT. 
FROM THE HON. A. ERSKINE. 



to give me a perusal of your songs. High- 
land Mary is most enchantingly pathetic, 
and Duncan Gray possesses native genu- 
ine humour; "spak o' lowpin o'er a linn," 
is a line of itself that should make you 
immortal. I sometimes hear of you from 
our mutual friend C. who is a most ex- 
cellent fellow, and possesses, above all 
men T know, the charm of a most, oblig- 
ing disposition. You kindly promised me, 
about a year ago, a collection of your un- 
publisiuid productions, religious and amo- 
rous : I know from exjiorience iiow irk 
some it is to copy. If you will get any 
trusty person in Dumfries to write them 
over fair, I will give Peter Hill whatever 
money he asks for his trouble, and I cer- 
tainly shall not betray your confidence. — 
I am your hearty admirer, 

ANDREW ERSKINE. 



No. XH. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

26tk January, 1 793. 

T APPRovK greatly my dear Sir, of 
your plans ; Dr. Beattie's essay will of 
itself be a treasure. On my part, I mean 
to draw up an appendix to the Doctor's 
essay, containing my stock of anecdotes, 
&c. of our Scots songs. All the late ]\Ir. 
Tytler's anecdotes I have by me, taken 



LETTERS. 



199 



down in the course of my acquaintance 
with him from his own mouth. I am 
such an entimsiast, that, in the covirsc of 
my several peregrinations tlirough Scot- 
land, I made a pilgrimage to tlic indivi 
dual spot from which every song took its 
rise; Lochabcr^ and the Braes of Ballen- 
den, excepted. So far as the locality, 
either from the title of the air, or the 
tenor of the song, could be ascertained, I 
have paid my devotions at the particular 
shrine of every Scots muse. 

I do not doubt but you might make a 
very valuable collection of Jacobite songs ; 
but would it give no offence ? In the mean 
time, do not you think that some of them 
particularly The sow's tail to Gcordle, as 
an air, with other words, might be well 
worth a place in your collection of lively 
Bongs .'' 

If it were possible to procure songs of 
merit it would be proper to have one set 
of Scots words to every air, and that the 
set of words to which the notes ought to 
be set. There is a naivete, a pastoral 
simplicity in a slight intermixture of Scots 
words and phraseology, which is more in 
unison (at least to my taste, and I will 
add to every genuine Caledonian taste) 
with the simple pathos, or rustic spright- 
I'incss of our native music, than any Eng- 
■ish verses whatever. 

The very name of Peter Pindar is an 
icquisition to your work. His Gres;ory 
IS beautiful. I have tried to give you a 
<5et of stanzas in Scots, on the same sub- 
ject, which are at your service. Not that 
I intend to enter the lists with Peter ; 
that would be presumption indeed. My 
6ong, though much inferior in poetic merit, 
has, I think, more of the ballad simplicity 
in it.* 

* ForBurns'g words, see Poems, p. 87. — Tlic song 
of Dr. Walcott, on the same subject, is as follows : 

Ah ; ope, Lord Gregory, thy door! 

A midnight wanderer siiiiis : 
Hard rnsli tlic rains, the tonipests roar, 

And liglilniiiga cleave the sliies. 

Who comes with wo at this drear night — 

A piisrrini of the gloom 1 
If she whose lovt did once delight, « 

My col shall yield her room. 

Alas ! thou heard'st a pilgrim mourn, 

That once was prized hy thee ; 
riiink of th<; ring by yonder burn 

Thou gav'si to love and me- 



My most respectful compliments to the 
honourable gentleman who favoured me 
with a postscript in your last. He shall 
hear from me and receive his MSS. soon. 



No. XHI. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON 



20/^ March, 1793. 



MY DEAR SIR, 



The song prefixed is one of my ju- 
venile works. f I leave it in your hands. 
I do not think it very remarkable, either 
for its merits or demerits. It is impossible 
(at least I feel it so in my stinted powers) 
to be always original, entertaining, and 
witty. 

What is becomeof the list, &c. of your 
songs ? I shall be out of all temper with 
you by and by. I have always looked 
upon myself as the prince o? indolent cor- 
respondents, and valued myself accor- 
dingly; and I will not, cannot bear rival- 
ship from you, nor any body else. 



No. XIV. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

With the first copy of Wandering Willie 
See Poems, p. 88. 

March, 1793. 

I LEAVE it to you, my dear Sir, to de- 
termine whether the above, or the old 
Thro' the lang Muir, be the best. 

But shouldst thou not poor Marian know, 

I'll turn my feet and part: 
And think the storms that round me blow. 

Far kinder than thy beart. 

It is but doing justic to Dr. Walcott to merttion, that 
bis song is the original. Mr. Burns saw it, liked it, 
and immediately wrote the other on the same subject, 
which is derived from an old Scottish ballad of uncer- 
tain origin. E. 

t Mary Morison, Poems, p. 87. 



500 



LETTERS. 



No. XV. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

OrK^r THE DOOR TO J\IK OU! 
WITH ALTERATIONS. 

On ' open the door, some pity to show, 
Oh ! open tlio door to mc, Oh !* 

Sec Poems, p. 88. 

I do not know wliethcr this song be 
reaLly mended. 



No. XVI. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

JESSIE. 
Tvne — " Bonnie Dundco." 

True lioartod was he, the sad Swain o' 

tlie Yarrow, 
And fair are tlio inaids on the banks o' 

tlie Ayr ; 

See Poems, j). 89. 



No. XVII. 
MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

Edinhurg-h, 2d April, 1793. 

I wii.i, not recognize tlio title you s;\\e 
yourself, " the prince of indolent corres- 
pondents ;" b>it if the adjective were 
taken away, T tliink the title would then 
fit you exactly. It jrives mo pleasure to 
find you can furnish anecdotes with re- 
spect to most of the songs: these will be 
a literary curiosity. 

T now send you my list of tlie songs 
which 1 believe will be found nearly com- 
plete. T have put down the lirst lines of 
all the English songs which I propose giv- 
ing in addition to the Scotcii verses.*^ If 
any others occur to you, better adapted 
to the character of the airs, pray mention 
them, when you favour me with your 

•xTlils Sfcoml line U'nsoiii;iniillv, 

(,^/'.\iiiii it mai/ na be, O I 



strictures upon every thing else relating 
to the work. 

Plcyel lias lately sent mo a number of 
the songs, with his symjihonies and ac- 
companiments added to them. 1 wish 
you were here, that I might serve up some 
of them to you with your own verses, by 
way of dessert after dinner. There is so 
much delightful fancy in the symphonies, 
and such a delicate simplicity in the ac- 
companiments — they arc indeed beyond 
all i)raise. 

I am very much pleased with the seve- 
ral last jiroductions of your muse : your 
Lord Gregory, in my estimation, is more 
interesting than Peter's, beautiful as his 
is ! Your lit re men IVillie must undergo 
some alterations to suit the air. Mr. 
Erskine and I have been conning it over; 
he will suggest what is necessary to make 
them a fit match.* 

The gentleman I have mentioned, whose 
fine taste you are no stranger to, is so 
well pleased both with the musical and 
poetical part of our work, that lie has 
volunteered his assistance, and has al- 
ready written four songs for it, which, 
by his own desire, I send for your pe 
rusal. 



No. XVIII. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

WHEN WILD WAR'S TlRADIiY DLA«T WAS 
BLAWN. 

./:/!>—" Tlie Mill Mill O." 

WriF.iv wild war's deadly blast was blawn, 
And gentle peace returning. 

See Poems, p. 89. 

* See tlie altered copy of Wandoring Willie, p. fi8. 
of the Poems. Several of I lie allcrniioiis seem to be of 
little inipoitaiice in tlieniBelvcs, ami were aiii>|itcd, it 
nmy be piesiiniod, for tbe sake of suiting the words 
belter to the music. The rioineric epithet for the Eea, 
i/iTr/.-Aivirini,'-, suggested by Mr. Krskine.is in itself nioro 
beiiiilifiil, as well perhaps as more sublime, than wild- 
ronrin/r, which ho has retained ; but as it is only ap- 
plicable to a placid state of the sea, or at most to the 
swell left oil its surface after the storm is over, itgive^ 
a pii-ture^of that element not so well adapted to the 
ideas of eternal separation, which the fair inoiirner in 
supposed to imprecate. From the origin.il song of 
Here awn Willie, Burns lias borrowed nothing but the 
second line and part of the first. The superior e.\cel. 
lenee of this beautiful poem, will, it is hoped, justify 
the dilfereut editions of it which we have given E. 



LETTERS. 



MEG O' THE MILL. 



Air — " O boniiln lass will you lio in n barrnclt." 

O KKN ye wliat Meg o' the Mill has got- 
ten, 

An' ken yc what Meg o' the Mill has got- 
ten ? 

See Poems, p. 89. 



No. XIX. 
MR BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

llh April, 1793. 

TriANif yon, my dear Sir, for yonr 
packet. You cannot imagine how niiicli 
this business of composing I'or your publi- 
cation has added to my cnjoymentH. 
What with my early attacimient to l)al- 
lads your books, &,c. ballad-making is 
now as completely my hobby-horse, as 
ever fortification was uncle Toby's ; so 
I'll e'en canter it away till \ come to the; 
limit of my race ((lod grant thnt I may 
take the right side; of thi; wiimiug post !) 
and then cheerlully looking biick on the 
honest folks with whom 1 have; been hap- 
py, r shall say or sing, " Sae merry as we 
a' liae been !" and raising my last looks 
to the wiiole hmnan race, the last words 
ofthe voiceof r/^oi/a^shall lie, " (iood night- 
and joy be wi' you a' !" So much for my 
past words : now for a few present re- 
marks, as tliijy have occurred at random 
on looking over your list. 

The first lines of IVie htst. limn I r.nme 
o'er Ike moor, and several otiior lines in if, 
are beautiful ; but in my opinion — pardon 
me rcivenul sbarh; of liamsay ! the song 
is unworthy of the divine air. T shall try 
to make or mend, h'or ever, Fortune, wilt 
thou prove, is a charming song ! but Ln- 
gnn hum and fj(>i;rin braes, are sweetly 
susceptible of rural itnag(^ry : I'll try that 
likewise, and if I succe(>d, the other song 
may class amongthe English ones. I re- 
member the two last lines of a verse, in 
some of th(! old songs f)r fA)<j;an U^aferlfur 
I know a good many dilferent ones) which 
I think pretty. 

• niiriiB lipro calls hlmsplf Ihn Fnicr. of Coil a In Imi- 
tation of Os:-iiin, wlio (l(;n(iiMiii!ilos hiiiisiilf llio Faice 
of Conn. Siirmrrri/ as wr, ii' liiirliiTn : and (lontl ni^'hl 
and joij lie wi' ijuu u', aiu tlic names ol' two Bcolllsli 
tunes. 



" Now my dear lad maun face his faes, 
Far, far frae me and Logan braes." 

J\ri/ Palie is a lover gay, is unequal. 
"His mind \s never muddy," is a muddy 
expression indeed. 

"Then I'll resign and nnirry I'atc, 
And syne my cockernony." — 

This is surely far unworthy of Ramsay, 
or your book. My song, /d//,-* of liarley, 
to the same tune, does not altogether 
please me ; but if I can mend it, and 
thrash a. few loose sentimc-nts out of it, I 
will submit it to your consideration. Tlie 
Jmss u' Pdlie's Jllilt is one of Ramsay's 
best songs ; but there is one loose senti- 
ment in it, whi(-h my much valued friend 
Mr. iOrskiiie will taiie into his critical con- 
sideration. — In Sir .1. Sinclair's Statisti- 
cal volumes, are two claims, one, 1 think, 
from Aberd(!enshire, and the other from 
Ayrshire, for tlie honour of this song. 
Tiie following an(!cdote, which I had from 
the pr(>sent Sir William Cuimingbam. of 
Rolxutland, who had it of the lat(! .lohn, 
l']arl of London, I can, on such authorities, 
believe. 

Allan Ramsay was residing at Loudon- 
castl(! with the then Earl, father to Earl 
.Tohn ; and one forenoon, riding or walk- 
ing out together, his Lordship and Allan 
passed u sweet rom;intic ypot on Irvine 
water, still called " Patie's Mill," where 
abonnie lass was "tedding hay,b!ire head- 
ed on the green." My Lord observ<;<l to 
Allan, that it would be a fine theme for a 
song. Ramsay took the hint, and linger- 
ing behind, he composed tin; first sketch 
of it, which he i)roduced at dinner. 

One day I heard Mary say, is a fine 
song; but for consistency's sake alter the 
name " Ailonis." Were there ever such 
banns publislKul, as a ])urpose of marriage 
between Jlilonis and .Mary? I agriM! with 
you that iny song, Tltcre's notigld hut eare 
on every lianil, is much superior to Poor- 
tilh eiiuld. The original song, Tlie MM 
Mill O, though excellent, is, on accomit 
of delicacy, inadmissible ; still I like the 
title, and think a Scottish song would 
suit the not(^s best ; and let your chos(!n 
pong, which is very i)retty, fi)llow, as an 
English set. The Panks of the Dee, is, 
you know, literally Langolec, to slow 
time. The song is well enough, but has 
some false imngery in it . for instance, 

" And sweetly the nightingale suiip fruiii tne tree.'' 



202 



LETTERS. 



In the first place, the nightingale sings 
in a low bush, but never from a tree ; and 
in the second place, there never was a 
nightino-ale seen, or heard, on the banks 
oAhe Dee, or on the banks of any other 
river in Scotland. Exotic rural imagery- 
is always comparatively flat. If T could 
hit on another stanza, equal to The small 
hirds rejoice, &c. I do myself honestly 
avow, that I think it a superior song.* 
John Anderson my jo — the song to this 
tune in Johnson's Museum, is my compo- 
sition, and I think it not my worst : if it 
suit you, take it, and welcome. Your 
collection of sentimental and pathetic 
songs, is, in my opinion, very complete ; 
but not so your comic ones. Where are 
Tullochgorum, Lumps o' puddin, Tibbie 
Fowler, and several others, which, in my 
humble judgment, are well worthy of pre- 
servation? There is also one sentimen- 
tal song of mine in the Museum, which 
never was known out of the immediate 
neighbourhood, until I got it taken down 
from a country girl's singing. It is called 
Craigieburn Wood ; and in the opinion of 
Mr. Clarke, is one of the sweetest Scot- 
tish songs. He is quite an enthusiast 
about it : and I would take his taste in 
Scottish music.against the taste of most 
connoisseurs. 

You are quite right in inserting the last 
five in your list, though they are certainly 
Irish. Shepherds, I have lost viy love! 
is to me a heavenly air — what would you 
think of a set of Scottish verses to it ? I 
have made one to it a good while ago, 
which I think * * * Ijyj \^ 
its original state is not quite a lady's song. 
I enclose an altered, not amended copy 
for you, if you choose to set the tune to 
it, and let the Irish verses follow. f 

Mr. Erskine's songs are all pretty, but 
his Ijune Vale, is divine. 

Yours, &c. 

liCt me know just how you like these 
random liin's. 

* It (vill bfi found, in the course of tlii> correspon- 
dence, tliat the Bard produced a second stanza of The 
Chevalier's Lament (to which he liere alkides) worthy 
of the first. E. 

t Jrr. Thomson, it appears, did not approve of tliiF 
sons, even in its altered state. Tt doe3 not appear in 
the correspondence ; but it is probably one to be found 
in his MS^. beginning, 

" Yestreen I got a pint of wine, 
A piace where body saw nu ; 



No. XX 
MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS 

Edinburgh, April, 1793. 

I REJOICE to find, my dear Sir, that 
ballad-making continues to be your hobby- 
horse. Great pity 'twould be were it 
otherwise. I hope you will amble it away 
for many a year, and " witch the world 
with your horsemanship." 

I know there are a good many lively 
songs of merit that I have not put down 
in the list sent you ; but I have them all 
in my eye. My Patie is a lover gay, 
though a little unequal, is a natural and 
very pleasing song, and I htmibly think 
we ought not to displace or alter it, ex- 
cept the last stanza.* 



No. XXI. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON 

April, 1793. 

I HAVE yours, my dear Sir, this mo. 
ment. I shall answer it and your former 
letter, in my desultory way of saying 
whatever comes uppermost. 

The business of many of our tunes want- 
ing, at the beginning, what fiddlers call 
a starting-note, is often a rub to us poor 
rhymers. 

" There's braw, braw lads on Yarrow 

braes. 
That wander through the blooming hea 

ther," 

you may alter to 

" Braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes, 
Ye wander," &c. 

Yestreen lay on this breast of mine, 
Thegowden locks of Anna!" 

Tt is highly characteristic of our Bard, but the strain 
of sentiment does not correspond with tlie air to which 
he proposes it should be allied. E. 

* The original letter from Mr. Thomson contains 
many observations on the Scottish songs, and on the 
manner of adapting the words to the music, which, at 
his desire, are suppressed. The subsequent letter ol 
Mr. F.urns refers to several of lli€se observations. K 



LETTERS. 



20 



My song, Here aica, there awa, as 
amended by Mr. Erskine, I entirely ap- 
prove of, and return you.* 

Give me leave to criticise your taste in 
the only thing in which it is in my opinion 
reprehensible. You know I ought to 
know something of my own trade. Of 
pathos, sentiment, and point, you are a 
complete judge : but there is a quality 
more necessary than either, in a song, 
and which is the very essence of a ballad, 
I mean simplicity: now, if I mistake not, 
this last feature you are a little apt to 
sacrifice to the foregoing. 

Ramsay, as every other poet, has not 
been always equally happy in his pieces; 
still I cannot approve of taking such li- 
berties with an author as Mr. W. pro- 
poses doing with The last time I came o'er 
the moor. Let a poet, if he chooses, take 
up the idea of another, and work it into 
a piece of his own ; but to mangle the 
works of the poor bard, whose tuneful 
tongue is now mute for ever, in the dark 
and narrow house ; by Heaven 'twould 
be sacrilege ! I grant that Mr. W.'s ver- 
sion is an improvement : but I know Mr. 
W. well, and esteem him much ; let him 
mend the song, as the Highlander mend- 
ed his gun — he gave it a new stock, a 
new lock, and a new barrel. 

I do not by this object to leaving out 
improper stanzas, where that can be done 
without spoiling the whole. One stanza 
in The Lass of Patie's J\IUl, must be left 
out : the song will be nothmg worse for 
it. I am not sure if we can take the same 
liberty with Corn rigs are honnie. Per- 
haps it might want the last stanza, and be 
the belter for it. Cauld kailin Aberdeen 
you must leave with me yet a while. I 
have vowed to have a song to that air, on 
the lady whom I attempted to celebrate 
in the verses Poortith cauld and restless 
love. At any rate my other song, Green 
grow the rashes, will never suit. That 
Bong is current in Scotland under the old 
title, and to the merry old tune of that 
name, which of course would mar the pro- 
gress of your song to celebrity. Your 
book will be the standard of Scots songs 
for the future : let this idea ever keep 
your judgment on the alarm. 

I send a song, on a celebrated toast in 

• Tlic reader has already sien that Burns did not 
£ually adupt all of Mr. Krskine's altcrutions. £. 

Bb2 



this country, to suit Bonnie Dundee. 1 
send you also a ballad to the Mill Mill O.* 

The Inst time I came o'er the moor, I 
would fain attempt to make a Scots song 
for, and let Ramsay's be the English set. 
You shall hear from me soon. When 
you go to London on this business, can 
you come by Dumfries ? I have still seve- 
ral MS. Scots airs by me which I have 
picked up, mostly from the singing of 
country lasses. They please me vastly ; 
but your learned lugs would perhaps be 
displeased with the very feature for which 
I like them. I call them simple ; you 
would pronounce them silly. Do you 
know a fine air called Jackie Hume's La- 
mcnt ? I have a song of considerable me- 
rit to that air. I'll enclose you both the 
song and tune, as I had them ready to 
send to Johnson's Museum. f I send you 
likewise, to me, a very beautiful little air, 
which I had taken down from viva voce..l 

Adieu ! 



No. XXII 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON 

April, 1793. 

MY DEAR SIR, 

I HAD scarcely put my last letter into 
the post-office, when I took up the sub- 
ject of The last time I came o'er the moor, 
and, ere I slept, drew the outlines of the 
foregoing.} How far T have succeeded, 
I leave on this, as on every other occa- 
sion, to you to decide. I own my vanity 
is flattered, when you give my songs a 
place in your elegant and superb work ; 
but to be of service to the work is my 
first wish. As I have often told you, I 
do not in a single instance wish you, out 
of compliment to me, to insert any thing 
of mine. One hint let me give you — 

* The song to the tune of Bonnie Dundee, is that 
given in the Poems, p 89. The ballad to the Mill Mill 
O, is that beginning, 

" When wild war's deadly blast was blawn." 

t The song here mentioned is that given in tho 
Poems, p. 89. O ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has got- 
ten? This song is surely Mr. Bnrns's own writing, 
though he doej not generally praise his own songs so 
much. 

JVote hy Mr. Thomson. 

X The air here mentioned is that for which he wrote 
tlic ballad o( liunnic Jean, given in p. 90 of the Poem*. 
! See Poems, page 145. — Young Peggy, 



204 



LETTERS. 



whatever Mr. Pleyel does, let him not 
alter one iota of the original Scottisii airs ; 
: mean in the song department ; but let 
our national music preserve its native 
features. They are, I own, frequently 
wild and irreducible to the moro modern 
rules ; but on that very eccentricity, per- 
haps, depends a great part of their effect. 



No. XXIII. 

MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

Edinhiirgh, 26th Jpril, 1793. 
I HEARTILY thank you, my dear Sir, 
for your last two letters, and the songs 
which accompanied them. I am always 
both instructed and entertained by obser- 
vations ; and the frankness with which 
you speak out your mind, is to me highly 
agreeable. It is very possible I may not 
have the true idea of simplicity in com- 
position. I confess there are several 
Bongs, of Allan Ramsay's for example, 
that I think silly enough, which another 
person, more conversant than I have been 
with country people, would perhaps call 
simple and natural. But the lowest 
scenes of simple nature will not please 
generally, if copied precisely as they are. 
The poet, like the painter, must select 
what will form an agreeable as well as a 
natural picture. On this subject it were 
easy to enlarge ; but at present suffice it 
to say, that I consider simplicity, rightly 
understood, as a most essential quality in 
composition, and the ground- work of beau- 
ty in all the arts. I will gladly appro- 
priate your most interesting new ballad. 
When icild war's deadly blast, ttc. to the 
Mill Mill O, as well as the two other 
Bongs to their respective airs ; but the 
third and fourth lines of the first verse 
must undergo some little alteration in or- 
der to suit the music. Pleyel does not 
alter a single note of the songs. That 
would be absurd indeed ! With the airs 
which he introduces into the sonatas, I 
allow him to take such liberties as he 
pleases ; but that has nothing to do with 
the songs. 



P. S. I wish you would do as you pro- 

fjoscd with your Rigs of Barley. If the 
oose sentiments are threshed out of it, I 
will find an air for it ; but as to this there 
IS no hurry. 



No. XXIV. 

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

June, 1793. 
When I tell you, my dear Sir, that a 
friend of mine, in whom I am much in- 
terested, has fallen a sacrifice to these 
accursed times, you will easily allow that it 
might unhinge me for doing any good 
among ballads. My own loss, as to pecuni- 
ary matters, is trifling; but the total ruin 
of a much-loved friend, is a loss indeed. 
Pardon my seeming inattention to your 
last commands. 

I cannot alter the disputed lines in the 
Mill Mill O* What you think a defect 
I esteem as a positive beauty ; so you see 
how doctors differ. I shall now with as 
much alacrity as I can muster, go on with 
youc commands. 

You know Frazer, the hautboy-player 
in Edinburgh — lie is here, instructing a 
band of music for a fencible corps quar- 
tered in this country. Among many of 
his airs that please me, there is one, well 
known as a reel, by the name of The Qua- 
ker' <t Wife; and which I remember a 
grand aunt of mine used to sing by the 
name of Liggeram Cosh, my honnie wee 
lass. Mr. Frazer plays it slow, and with 
an expression that quite charms me. I 
became such an enthusiast about it, that I 
made a song for it, which I here subjoin ; 
and enclose Frazer's set of the tune. If 
they hit your fancy, they are at your ser- 
vice ; if not, return me the tune, and I will 
put it in Johnson's Museum. I think the 
song is not in my worst manner. 

Blythe hae I been on yon hill, 
As the lambs before me ; 

See Poems, p. 90. 

* The lines were llie third and fourth. See Poems, 
p. 98. 

" Wi' mony a sweet babe fatherless, 
And mony a widoW mourning." 

As our poet had maintained a long silence, and the 
first nuniher of Mr. Thomson's Musical Work was in 
the press, this g'cntleinan ventured by Mr. Erskiue's 
advice, to substitute for them in that publication, 

" And eyes again with pleasure beam'd 
That had been biear'd vvith mourning." 

Though better suited to the music, these lines are infe- 
rior to iheoriginal. This i;- the only alteration adopted 
by Mr. Thomson, which Burns did not approve, or at 
least assent to. 



LETTERS. 



205 



I should wish to hear how this pleases 
you 



No. XXV. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

Z5th June, 1192. 

Have you ever, my dear Sir, felt your 
bosom ready to burst with indignation on 
reading of those mighty villains who di- 
vide kingdom against kingdom, desolate 
provinces, and lay nations waste, out of 
the wantonness of ambition, or often from 
still more ignoble passions ? In a mood T)f 
this kind to-day, I recollected the air of 
Log-cm Water ; and it occurred to me that 
its querulous melody probably had its ori- 
gin from the plaintive indignation of some 
swelling, suffering heart, fired at the ty- 
rannic strides of some public destroyer ; 
and overwhelmed with private distress, 
the consequence of a country's ruin. If 
I have done any thing at all like justice 
to my feelings, the following song, com- 
posed in three quarters of an hour's me- 
ditation in my elbow chair, ought to have 
some merit 

O Logan, sweetly didst thou glide, 
That day I was my Willie's bride ; 
See Poems, p. 90 

Do you know the following beautiful 
little fragment in Witherspoon's Collec- 
tion of Sculs Songs? 

" O gin my love were yon red rose, 

That grows upon the castle wa' ;" 

See Poems, p. 00. 

This thought is inexpressibly beautiful : 
and quite, so far as I know, original. It 
is too short for a song, else I would for- 
swear you altogether, unless you gave it 
a place. I have often tried to eke a stan- 
za to it, but in vain. After balancing 
myself for a musing five mmutes, on the 
hind legs of my elbow chair, I produced 
the following. 

The verses are far inferior to the fore- 
going, I frankly confess ; but if worthy of 
insertion at all, they might be first in 
p'ace ; as every poet, wiio knows any 
thing of his trade, will husband his best 
thoughts for a concluding stroke. 



O, were my love yon lilach fair, 
Wi' purple blossoms to the spring ; 
See Poems, p. 90. 



No. XXVI. 
MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS 

Monday, \st July, 1793. 

I AM extremely sorry, my good Sir^ 
that any thing should happen to unhinge 
you. The times are terribly out of tune ; 
and when harmony will be restored, Hea- 
ven knows. 

The first book of songs, just published, 
will be despatched to you along with this 
Let me be favoured with your opinion of 
it frankly and freely. 

I shall certainly give a place to the 
song you have written for the Quaker's 
Wife; it is quite enchanting. Pray will 
you return the list of songs with such airs 
added to it as you think ought to be in- 
cluded. The business now rests entirely 
on myself, the gentlemen Who originally 
agreed to join the speculation having re- 
quested to be off. No matter, a loser I 
cannot be. The superior excellence of 
the work will create a general demand 
for it as soon as it is properly known. 
And were the sale even slower than it 
promises to be, I should be somewhat 
compensated for my labour, by the plea- 
sure 1 shall receive from the music. I 
cannot express how much I am obhged 
to you for the exquisite new songs you 
are sending me ; but thanks, my friend, 
are a poor return for what you have done : 
as I shall be benefited by the publication, 
you must suffer me to enclose a small 
mark of my gratitude,''^ and to repeat it 
afterwards when I find it convenient. 
Do not return it, for, by Heaven, if you 
do, our correspondence is at an end : and 
though this would be no loss to you, it 
would mar the publication, which under 
your auspices cannot fail to be respecta- 
ble and interesting. 



Wednesday J\Iorning. 

I thank you for your delicate additional 
verses to the old fragment, and for your 



* Five Pounds. 



206 



LETTERS. 



excellent song to Z-o^-an Water; Thom- 
Bon's truly elegant one will follow, for the 
English singer. Your apostrophe to 
statesmen is admirable : but I am not 
sure if it is quite suitable to the supposed 
gentle character of the fair mourner who 
speaks it. 



No. XXVII. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 



July 2d, 1793. 



MY DEAR S[R, 



I HAVE just finished the following 
ballad, and, as I do think it in jny best 
style, I send it you. Mr. Clarke, who 
wrote down the air from Mrs. Burns's 
wood-note wild, is very fond of it, and has 
given it a celebrity, by teaching it to some 
young ladies of the first fashion here. If 
you do not like the air enough to give 
it a place in your collection, please return 
it. The song you may keep, as I remem- 
ber it. 

There was a lass, and she was fair, 
At kirk and market to be seen ; 

See Poems, p. 90 and 91. 

I have some thoughts of inserting in 
your index, or in my notes, the names of 
the fair ones, the themes of my songs, I 
do not mean the name at full ; but dashes 
or asterisms, so as ingenuity may find 
them out. 

The heroine of the foregoing is Miss 
M. daughter to Mr. M. of D. one of your 
subscribers. I have not painted her in 
the rank which she holds in life, but in 
tTie dress and character of a cottager. 



No. XXVIIT. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

July, 1793. 

I ASSURE you, my dear Sir, that you 
truly hurt me with your pecuniary parcel. 
It degrades me in my own eyes. However 
to return it would savour of aflcctation : 
t)ut as to any more traffic of that debtor 



and creditor kind, I swear by that Honour, 
which crowns the upright statue of Ro- 
bert Burns's Integrity — on the least 
motion of it, I will indignantly spurn the 
by-past transaction, and from that mo- 
ment commence entire stranger to you ! 
Burns's character for generosity of sen- 
timent and independence of mind, will, I 
trust, long out-live any of his wants which 
the cold unfeeling ore can supply : at least, 
I will take care that such a character he 
shall deserve. 

Thank you for my copy of your publi 
cation. Never did my eyes behold, in 
any musical work, such elegance and cor- 
rectness. Your preface, too, is admirably 
written ; only your partiality to me has 
made you say too much : however, it will 
bind me down to double every effort in 
the future progress of the work. The 
following are a few remarks on the songs 
in the list you sent me. I never copy 
what I write to you, so I may be often 
tautological, or perhaps contradictory. 

The Floxcers of the Forest is charming 
as a poem, and should be, and nmst be, 
set to the notes; but, though out of your 
rule, the three stanzas beginning, 

" I liae seen the sniilingo' fortune beguiling," 

are worthy of a place, were it but to im- 
mortalize the author of them, who is an 
old lady of my acquaintance and at this 
moment living in Edinburgh. She is a 
Mrs. Cockburn ; I forget of what place ; 
but from Roxburghshire. What a cliarm- 
ing apostrophe is 

" O fickle fortune, why this cruel sporting, 
Why, why torment xia—poor sons of a day .'" 

The old ballad, I wish I were where 
Helen lies, is silly to contemptibility.'* 
My alteration of it in Johnson's is not 
much better. Mr. Pinkerton, in his what 
he calls ancient ballads (many of them 
notorious, though beautiful enough, for- 
geries) has the best set. It is full of his 
own interpolations, but no matter. 

In my next I will suggest to your con- 
sideration a few songs which may have 

* There is a copy of this ballad given in the account 
of the Parish of Kirkpatrlck-Fleeitiing (wliich contains 
the tomb of fair Helen Irvine,) in the Statistics of Sir 
John Sinclair, vol xiii. p. 275, to which this character 
is certainly not applicable. 



escaped your hurried notice 
mean time, allow me to congratulate you 
now, as a brotliorof the quill. You have 
committed your character and fame : which 
will now be tried for ages to come, by the 
illustrious jury of the Sons and Daugii- 
TKR8 of Tahtk — all whom poesy can 
please, or music charm. 

BoinjT a bard of nattiro, I have some 
pretensions to second sight; and I am 
warranted by the spirit to foretell and af- 
firm, that your grcat-grand-child will hold 
up your volumes, and say, with honest 
pride, " This so much admired selection 
was the work of my ancestor." 



LETTERS. 
In the 



SO? 



No. XXIX. 
MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

Edinburgh, \st August, 1793. 

PFAR SIR, 

T HAD the pleasure of receiving your 
last two letters, and am happy to find you 
are quite pleased with the appearance of 
the first bonk. When you come to hear 
the songs sung and accompanied, you will 
be charmed with them. 

The bonnie bracket Lassie, certainly de- 
serves better verses, and I hope you will 
match her. Cauld Kail in Aberdeen — 
I^et me in this ae night, and several of the 
livelier airs, wait the muse's leisure : 
these are peculiarly worthy of her choice 
gifts : besides, you'll notice, that in airs 
of this sort, the singer can always do 
greater justice to the poet, than in the 
ekwer airs of The Bush <d)oon Trac/unir, 
Lord Grngory, and tho like; for in the 
manner the latter are freqtiently sung, 
you must be contented with the sound, 
without the sense. Indeed both the airs 
and words are disguised by the very slow, 
languid, psalm-singing style in which they 
are too often performed, they loseiuiinm- 
tion and expression altogetiier ; and in- 
Btead of speaking to the mind, or touching 
the heart, they cloy upon the ear, and set 
us a yawning ! 

Your ballad, Thrrr, was n lass and sir 
trns fair, is simple and beautiful, and shall 
undoubtedly grace my collection. 



No. XXX. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

August, 1793. 

My DEAR THOMSON, 

I HOLD the pen for our friend Clarke, 
who at present is studying the music of 
the spheres at my elbow. The Gcorgium 
Sidns he thinks is rather out of tune ; so 
until he rectify that matter, he cannot 
stoop to terrestrial affairs. 

He sends you six of the Rondeau sub- 
jects, and if more arc wanted, ho says you 
shall have them. 



Confound your long stairs ! 

S. CLARKE 



No. XXXL 

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON 

August, 1793. 

Your objection, my dear Sir, to the 
passages in my song of Logan Water, '\3 
right in one instance, but it is difficult to 
mend it; If I can, I will. The other pas- 
sage you object to, does not appear in the 
same light to me. 

I have tried my hand on Robin Adair, 
and you will probably think, with little 
success : but it is such a cursed, cramp, 
out-of-the-way measure, that I despair of 
doing any thing better to it. 

PHILLIS THE FAIR. 

Whtle larks with little wing, 
Fann'd the pure air, 

See Poems, /). 91. 

So much for namby-pamby. I may, 
after all, try my hand on it in Snots verse. 
There I always find myself most at home. 

I have just put the last hand to the song 
1 iu(!nrit for Cnnld Kail in Ahirdnn. Tf 
it suits you to insert it, I shall be jdeased, 
as the heroine is a favourite of mine; if 
not, I shall also be pleased ; becaubo I 



SOS 



LETTERS. 



wish, and will be ^lad, to see you act de- 
cidedly on the business.* 'Tis a tribute 
as a man of taste, and as an editor, which 
you owe yourself. 



No. XXXII. 
MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

August, 1793. 

MY GOOD SIR, 

I coNsiDKR it one of the most agree- 
able circumstances attending this publi- 
cation of mine, that it has procured me 
BO many of your much valued epistles. 
Pray make my acknowlcdfrmcnts. lo St. 
Stephen for the tunes : tell him I admit 
the justness of his complaint on my stair- 
case, conveyed in his laconic postscript 
to your yew (V c.iprit, whicii I perused more 
than once, without discovering exactly 
whether your discussion was nuisic, as- 
tronomy, or politics : though a sagacious 
friend, acquainted with the convivial ha- 
bits of the poet and the musician, oifcrcd 
mo a bet of two to one, you were just 
drowning care together ; that an empty 
bowl was the only thing tliat would deeplj' 
allbct you, and the only matter you could 
then study how to remedy ! 

I shall be glad to see you give Robin 
yjdttir a Scottish dress. Peter is furnish- 
ing him svith auEnglisIisuitfor a change, 
and you arc well malclicd together. Ro- 
bin's air is excellent, though he certainly 
has an out of the way measure as ever 
Poor Parnassian wight was plagued with. 
I wish you would invoke the muse for a 
single elegant stanza to be substituted 
forthe concluding objectionable verses of 
Down the Ihirn Davic^ so that this most 
exquisite song may no longer be excluded 
from good company. 

Mr. Allan has made an inimitable draw- 
ing from your John Anderson my Jo, 
wliicli I am to have engraved as a fron- 
tispii'co to the humourous clai-'s of songs: 
you will bo quite chariii(>d with it I pro. 
misc you. Tlie old couple are seated by 
the fireside. Mrs. Anderson, in great 
good humour, is clapping .Tohn's shoul- 
ders, while he smiles, and looks at her 



• Tlic song licrcwitli sent, is that in p. 92, of the 
Poi'iu 



with such glee, as to show that he fully 
recollects the pleasant days and nights 
when they were first acquent. The draw- 
ing would do honour to the pencil of 
Teniers. 



No. XXXIII. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

August, 1793. 

That crinkum-crankum tune Robin 
Adair, has run so in my head, and I suc- 
ceeded so ill in my last attempt, that I 
have ventured in this morning's walk, one 
essay more. You, my dear Sir, will re- 
member an unfortunate part of our worthy 
friend C.'s story, which happened about 
three years ago. That struck my fancy 
and I endeavoured to do the idea justice 
as follows : 

SONG. 

Had I a cave on some wild distant shore, 
Where the winds howl to the waves' dash- 



ing roar : 



See Poems, p. 91. 



By the way, I have met with a musical 
Highlander in Bredalbane's Fencibles. 
which are quartered here, who assures 
me that he well remembers his mother's 
singing Gaelic songs to both Robin Adair 
and Gramachrcc. They certainly have 
more of the Scotch than Irish taste in 
them. 

This man comes from the vicinity ot 
Inverness; so it could not be any inter- 
course with Ireland that could bring them; 
— except, what I shrewdly suspect to be 
the case, the wandering minstrels, har- 
pers, and pipers, used to go frequently 
errant tlirough tlic wilds both of Scotland 
and Ireland, and so some favourite airs 
miglit be ronimon- to both. A case in 
in point — Tliey have lately in Ireland, 
published an Iiisli air as they say ; called 
Caun da dcli^/i. The fact is, in a publi- 
cation of Corri's, a great while ago, you 
will find the same air, called a Highland 
one, with a Gaelic song set to it. Its 
name there, I think, is Oran Gnoil, and 
a fine air it is. Do ask honest Allan, or 
the Rev. Gaelic Parson, about these 
matters. 



LETTERS. 



209 



No. XXXIV. 



MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

August^ 1793. 

MY DEAR ^R, 

Let me in this ae night, I will consider. 
I am glad that you are pleased with my 
song, Had I a cave, Slc, as I liked it my- 
self. 

T walked out yesterday evening with a 
volume of the Museum in my hand; when 
turning up Allan Water, " What num- 
bers shall the muse repeat," &c. as the 
words appeared to me rather unworthy 
of so fine an air, and recollecting that 
it is on your list, I sat and raved under 
the shade of an old thorn, till I wrote one 
to suit the measure. I may be wrong ; 
but I think it not in my worst style. You 
must know, that in Ramsay's Tea-table, 
where the modern song first appeared, 
the ancient name of the tune, Allan says, 
is Allan Water, or My love Annie's very 
honnie. This last has certainly been a 
line of the original song ; so I took up 
the idea, and as you will see, have intro- 
duced the line in its place which I pre- 
sume it formerly occupied ; though I like- 
wise give you a chusing line, if it should 
not hit the cut of your fancy. 

By Allan stream I chanced to rove, 
While Phoebus sank beyond Benleddi,* 
See Poems, p. 91. 

Bravo! say I: it is a good song. Should 
you think so too (not else,) you can set 
the music to it, and let the other follow 
as English verses. 

Autumn is my propitious season. I 
make more verses in it than all the year 
else. 

God bless you ! 



and yesterday I set the following verses 
to it. Urbani, whom I have met with 
here, begged them of me, as he admires 
the air much : but as I understand that 
he looks with rather an evil eye on your 
work, I did not choose to comply. How- 
ever, if the song does not suit your taste, 
I may possibly send it him. The set 
of the air which I had in my eye is in 
Johnson's Museum. 

O WHISTLE, and I'll come to you, my lad,* 
O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad : 
See Poems, p. 92. 



No. XXXV. 

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

August, 1793. 
Is WIdatle, and Til come to you, my 
lad, one of your airs ; I admire it much ; 

• A mountain, west of Strath- Allan, 3,000 feet liigJi. 
R. B 



Another favourite air of mine, is, The 
muckin o' Geordie's Byre, when sung slow 
with expression ; I have wished that it 
had had better poetry ; that I have en- 
deavoured to supply as follows : 

Adown winding Nith I did wander,t 
To mark the sweet flowers as they spring ; 
See Poems, p. 92. 

Mr. Clarke begs you to give Miss Phil- 
lis a corner in your book, as she is a par- 
ticular flame of his. She is a Miss P. M. 
sister to Bonnie Jean. They are both jui- 
pils of his. You shall hear from me the 
very first grist I get from my rhyming- 
mill. 



No. XXXVI. 

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

August, 1793. 
That tune, Cauld Kail, is such a fa- 
vourite of yours, that I once more roved 
out yesterday for a gloamin-shot at the 
muses ;| when the muse that presides o'er 
the shores of Nith, or rather my old in- 

• In some of the MSS. the (bur first lines run thus : 
O whistle, and I'll come to thee, my jo, 
O whistle, and I'll come to thee, my jo ; 
Tho' father and inollier, and a' should say no, 
O whistle and I'll -:ome to thee, my jo. 

Sec also Letter, No. LXXVII. 

t This son^, certainly beautiful, would appear to 
more advantaRc without the chorus ; ns is indeed the 
case with several other songs of our author. E. 

} GInamin— twilight; prohably from glooming. A 
beautiful poetical word which oucht to he adopted in 
England. .4 gloamin-shot, a twilight interview. 



„ 



210 



LETTERS. 



Bpiring, dearest nymph, Coila, whispered 
me the following. I have two reasons for 
thinking that it was my early, sweet, sim- 
ple inspirer that was by my elbow, " smooth 
gliding without step," ana pouring the 
song on my glowing fancy. In the iirst 
place, since I left Coila's native haunts, 
not a fragment of a poet has arisen to 
cheer her solitary musings, by catching 
inspiration from her; so I more than sus- 
pect that she has followed me hither, or 
at least makes me occasional visits : se- 
condly, the last stanza of this song I send 
you, is the very words that Coila taught 
me many years ago, and which I set to an 
old Scots reel in Johnson's Museum. 

Come, let me take thee to my breast, 
And pledge we ne'er shall sunder ; 

See Poems, 'p. 92. 

If you think the above will fsuit your 
idea of your favourite air, I shall be highly 
pleased. The last time I came o'er the 
moor, I cannot meddle with, as to mend- 
ing it ; and the musical world have been 
so long accustomed to Ramsay's words, 
that a different song, though positively 
superior, would not be so well received. 
I am not fond of choruses to songs, so I 
have not made one for the foregoing. 



No. XXXVII. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

August 1793. 

DAINTY DAVIE.* 

Now rosy May comes in wi' flowers, 
To deck her gay, green spreading bow- 
ers; 

See Poems, p. 93. 

So much for Davie. The chorus, you 
know, is to the low part of the tune. See 
Clarke's set of it in the Museum. 

N. B. In the Museum they have drawl- 
ed out the tune to twelve lines of poetry, 
which is **** nonsense. Four lines of 
song, and four of chorus, is the way. 

* Dainty Davie is the tille of an old Pcotch sons, 
from wliich Burns has taken nothing but the title and 
the measure. E. 



No. xxxvni. 

MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 
Edinburgh, \st Sept. 1793. 

MT DEAR SIR, 

Since wri'^ing you last, I have re- 
ceived half a dozen songs, with which I 
am delighted beyond expression. The 
humour and fancy of Whistle, and I'll 
come to you, my lad, will render it nearly 
as great a favourite as Duncan Gray. 
Come, let me take thee to my breast — Adown 
winding J^ith, and By Allan stream, &c., 
are full of imagination and feeling, and 
sweetly suit the airs for which they are 
intended. Had I a cave on some wild dis- 
tant shore, is a striking and affecting com- 
position. Our friend, to whose story it 
refers, read it with a swelling heart, I 
assure you. The union we are now form- 
ing, I think, can never be broken ; these 
songs of yours will descend with the mu- 
sic to the latest posterity, and will be 
fondly cherished so long as genius, taste 
and sensibility exist in our island. 

While the muse seems so propitious, I 
think it right to enclose a list of all the 
favours I have to ask of her, no fewer 
than twenty and three ! I have burdened 
the pleasant Peter with as many as it is 
probable he will attend to : most of the 
remaining airs would puzzle the English 
poet not a little ; they are of that pecu- 
liar measure and rhythm, that they must 
be familiar to him who writes for them. 



No. XXXIX. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON 

Sept. 1793. 

You may readily trust, my dear Sir, 
that any exertion in my power is heartily 
at your service. But one thing I must 
hint to you ; the very name of Peter Pin- 
dar is of great service to your publication, 
so get a verse from him now and then ; 
though I have no objection, as well as 1 
can, to bear the burden of the business. 

You know that my pretensions to mu- 
sical taste are merely a few of nature's 
instincts, untauglit and untutored by art. 
For this reason, many musical composi- 



LETTERS. 



211 



tions, particularly whoro much of the me- 
rit lies in counterpoint, however they may 
transport anil ravish the cars of you con- 
noisseurs, aflbct my simple lug no other- 
wise than merely as melodious din. On 
the other hand, oy way of amends, I am 
deliglited witli many little melodies, which 
the learned musician despises as silly and 
insijjid. I do not know whether the ohl 
air Heij tiiUin tailtle may ranii amonirthis 
number : hut well I know that, with Fra- 
zcr's hautboy, it has often filled my eyes 
with tears. There is a tradition, which 
I have met with in many places of Scot- 
land, that it was Rftbert Bruce's march 
at the battle of Eannockburn. This 
thought, in my solitary wanderings, warm- 
ed me to a pitch of enthusiasm on the 
thoine of Liberty and Independence, which 
1 threw into a kind of Scottish ode, fitted 
to the air, that one might suppose to be 
the gallant Royal Scot's address to his 
heroic followers on that eventful morn- 
ing.* 

So may God ever defend the cause of 
truth and Liberty, as He did that day! — 
Amen. 

P. S. T showed the air to Urbani, wlio 
was highly pleased with it, and begged 
me to make soft verses for it; but I had 
no idea of giving myself any trouble on 
the subject, till the accidental recollection 
of that glorious struggle for freedom, as- 
Bociated with the glowing ideas of some 
other struggles of the same nature, not 
quite so ancient, roused my rhyming ma- 
nia. Clarke's sot of the tune, with his 
bass, you will find in the Museum ; though 
I am afraid that the air is not what will 
entitle it to a place in your elegant selec- 
tion. 



No. XL. 



MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

September, 1793. 

I DARK say, my dear Sir, that you will 
begin to think my correspondence is per- 
secution. No matter, I can't help it ; a 
ballad is my hobby-horse : which though 
otherwise a simple sort of harmless idioti- 

• Here followed Bruce's address as given In the 
Pornis, |i 81- 

This noble strain was conceived by our poet during 
a Btoiin juuong the wilds of Glen-Ken in Galloway. 

C c 



cal beast enough, has yet this blessed 
headstrong property, that when once it 
has fairly made ofi'with a hapless wight, 
it gets so enamoured with the tinkle-gin- 
gle, tinkle-gingle, of its own bells, that it 
is sure to run poor pilgarlic, the bedlam- 
jockey, quite beyond any useful point or 
post in the common race of man. 

The following song I have composed 
for Ot-an G'ao//, the Highland air that you 
tell me in your last, you have resolved to 
give a place to in your book. I have this 
iiioiuent finished the song, so you have it 
glowing from the mint. If it suit you, 
well ! — if not, 'tis also well ! 



Behold the hour, the boat arrive ; 
Thou goest, thou darling of my heart I 

See Poems, p. 93. 



No. XLI. 

MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS 

Edinburgh, 5th September, 1793. 

T BELIEVE it is generally allowed that 
the greatest modesty is the sure attend- 
ant of the greatest merit. While you are 
sending me verses that even Shakspeare 
might be proud to own, you speak of them 
as if they were ordinary productions ! 
Your heroic ode is to me thcs noblest com- 
position of the kind in the Scottish Ian- 
gunge. I happened to dine yesterday 
with a party of our friends, to whom I 
read it. They were all charmed with it; 
intreated me to find out a suitable air 
for it, and reprobated the idea of giving 
it a tune so totally devoid of interest or 
grandeur as fTci/ lullie ta'dtie. Assuredly 
your partiality for this tunc must arise 
from the ideas associated in your mind by 
the tradition concerning it ; for T never 
heard any person, and I have conversed 
again and again, with the greatest enthu- 
siasts for Scottish airs, I say I never 
heard any one speak of it as worthy of 
notice. 

1 have been running ovei the whr.ia 
hundred airs, of which I lately sent you 
the list ; and I think Lexnie Gordon, is 
most happily adapted to your ode : at least 
with a very sliirht variation of the fourth 



212 



LETTERS. 



line, wliich I shall presently submit to 
you. Thero i.-5 in Lewie Gordon more of 
the grand tiian tlic plaintive, particularly 
when it is sunn- with a degree of spirit 
which your words would oblige the singer 
to give it. I would liave no scruple about 
substituting your ode in tlie room of Lewie 
Gordon, which lias neither the interest, 
the grandeur, nor the poetry tliat ciia- 
racterize your verses. Now the varia- 
tion I have to suggest upon the last line 
of each verse, the only line too short for 
ihe air, is as follows : 

Verse IsJ, Or to glnriovs victorie. 

id, Chains — ctining and slavcrie. 
3rf, Let him, lit him turn and (lie. ' 
Ath, Lot him bravely follow mo. 
5tA, But they shall, they shall be free. 
CfA, Let us, let us do or die !_ 

If you connect each line with its own 
verse, I do not think you will find that 
either the sentiment or the expression 
loses any of its energy. The only line 
which T dislike in the whole of the song 
is, " Welcome to your gory bed." Would 
not another word be preferable to viclcome? 
In your next I will expect to be informed 
whether you agree to what I have pro- 
posed. The little alterations I submit 
with the greatest deference. 

The beauty of the verses you have made 
for Oran Gaoil will ensure celebrity to 
the air. 



No. XLII. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

September, 1793. 

I HAVE received your list, my dear Sir, 
and here go my observations on it.* 

Down the hw n Davie. I have this mo- 
ment tried an alteration, leaving out the 
last half of the third stanza, and the first 
ialf of the last stanza, thus : 

Jls down th(? burn they took their way 

And thro' the flowery dale ; 
His cheek to hers he aft did lay, 

And love was ay the tale. 

• Mr. Thoiiipon's list of songs for his publication. 
In bis remarks, Ibo bjird pro' eeds in ordi'r, aiul goes 
t!ir(ni|.'b Ilic wliolo ; but on many of tlicni he merely siR- 
nifies Ins .inpnibation. All his remarks of any impor- 
i«iicc are presented to the reader. 



With " Mary, when shall we return, 

Sic pleasure to renew .'"' 
Quoth Mary, " Love, I like the burn, 

And ay shall follow you."* 

Thro' the loood Laddie — T am decidedly 
of opinion that both in this, and There'll 
never he peace till Jamie comes hame, the 
second or high ])art of the tune, being a re- 
petition of the first part an octave higher, 
is only for instrumental ntusic, one would 
be much better omitted in singing. 

Cowdcn-knowes. Remember in your 
index that the song in pure English to thii 
tune, beginning, 

' When summer comes the swains on Tweed.' 



is the production of Crawford, 
was his Christian name. 



Robert 



Laddie lie near me, must lie by me for 
some time. I do not know the air ; and 
until I am complete master of a tune, in 
my own singing (such as it is,) I can never 
compose for it. My way is : I consider 
the poetic sentiment correspondent to my 
idea of the musical expression ; then 
choose my theme ; begin one stanza ; 
when that is composed, which is generally 
the most difficult part of the business, I 
walk out, sit down now and then, look out 
for objects in nature around me tliat are 
in unison and harmony with the cogita- 
tions of my fancy, and workings of my 
bosom ; humming every now and then the 
air, with the verses I have framed. When 
I feel my muse beginning to jade, I retire 
to the solitary fire side of my stiuly, and 
there commit my effusions to paper ; 
swinging at intervals on the hind legs of 
my elbow chair, by way of calling forth 
my own critical strictures, as my pen goes 
on. Seriously, this, at home, is almost 
invariably my way. 

What cursed egotism ! 

Oill Morice, I am for leaving out. It 
is a plaguy length; the air itself is never 
sung ; and its place can well be supplied 
by one or two songs for fine airs that are 
not in your list. For instance, Crnsie- 
burn-wood and Roy's Wife. The first, 
beside its intrinsic merit, has novelty ; 
and the last has high merit, as well aa 

♦ Thlsalterntion Mr. Thomson has adopted (or at 

least intended to a<lopl,) instead of thr> last slaiiTS of 

the original song, which is objectionable, in point of 
delicacy. E. 



LETTERS. 



great celebrity. T have the original words 
of a sonnr for the last air. in the hand- 
writing of the lady who composed it; and 
they are superior to any edition of the 
eong which the public has yet seen.* 

Highland Laddie. The old set will 
please a mere Scotch car best ; and the 
new an Italianized one. Tlicrc is a third, 
and what Oswald calls the old Highland 
Ldddic, which pleases more than either 
of them. It is sometimes called Glnglan 
Johnnie ; it being the air of an old hu- 
morous tawdry song of that name. You 
will find it in the Museum, / hae been at 
Croolcieden, &c. I would advise you in 
this musical quandary, to offer up your 
prayers to the muses for inspiring direc- 
tion ; and in the mean time, waiting for 
this direction bestow a libation to Bacchus ; 
and there is not a doubt but you will hit 
on a judicious choice. Prohatum Est. 

Auld Sir Simon, T must beg yon to leave 
nut, and put in its place The Quaker's 
Wife. 

Blithe hae I been o'er the hill, is one of 
the finest songs ever I made in my life ; 
and besides, is composed on a young lady, 
positively the most beautiful, lovely wo- 
man in the world. As I purpose giving 
you the names and designations of all my 
heroines, to appear in some future edition 
of your work, perhaps half a century 
hence, you must certainly include I'he 
bonniest lass in a' the warld in your col- 
lection. 

Daintie Davie, T have hoard sung, nine- 
teen tliousand nine hundred and ninety- 
nine times, and always with the chorus 
to the low part of the tune ; and nothing 
has surprised me so much as your opinion 
on this subject. If it will not suit as I 
proposed, we will lay two of the stanzas 
together, and then make the chorus fol- 
low. 

Fee him father — I enclose you Frazer's 
Rct of this tune when he plays it slow; in 
fact he makes it the language of despair. 
I shall here give you two stanzas in that 
style, merely to try if it will bo any im- 
provomnnt. Were it possible, in singing 
to give it half the pathos which Frazer 
gives it in playing, it would make an ad- 
mirably pathetic song. I do not give 

* This song, so mur.li admirnd by our bard, will be 
foiliij at the buUuiii of p. ":J9. K. 



these verses for any merit they have. I 
composed them at the time in which Patie 
Allan's mither died, that was about the back 
o' midnight ; and by the lea-side of a bowl 
of punch, which had overset every mortal 
in company, except the hautbois and the 
muse. 

Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, Thou hast 

left me ever, 
Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, Thou hast 

left me ever. 

See Poems, p. 93. 

Jockey and Jennie I would discard, and 
in its place would put There's nae luck 
about the house, which has a very pleasant 
air, and which is positively the finest love 
ballad in that style in the Scottish or per- 
haps any other language. When she came 
ben she bobbit, as an air, is more beautiful 
than either, and in the andante way, would 
unite with a charming sentimental ballad. 

Saw ye my Father 7 is one of my great- 
est favourites. The evening before last, 
I wandered out, and began a tender song ; 
in what I think is its native style. I must 
premise, that the old way, and the way 
to give most effect, is to have no starting 
note, as the fiddlers call it, but to burst 
at once into the pathos. Every country 
girl sings — Saw ye my father, &.c. 

My song is but just begun ; and I should 
like, before I proceeded, to know your 
opinion of it. I have sprinkled it with 
the Scottish dialect, but it may easily be 
turned into correct English.* 



Todlin hame. Urbani mentioned an 
idea of his, which has long been mine ; 
that this air is highly susceptible of pa- 
thos ; accordingly, you will soon hear him 
at your concert try it to a song of mine in 
the Museum ; Ye banks and braes o' bon- 
nie Boon. One song more and I have 
done : Auld lang syne. The air is but 
mediocre ; but the following song, the old 
song of the olden times, and which has 
never been in print, nor even in manu- 
script, initil I took it down from an old 
man's singing, is enough to recommend 
any air.f 

* This song begins, 

' Where are the joys I hae met in the morning. E 
t This song of tlic olden time is excellent. It ii wor 
tliy uf our bard. 



S14 



LETTERS. 



AULD LANG SYNE. 



Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 
And never brought to min' ? 

See Poems, p. 93. 

Now, I suppose I have tired your pa- 
tience fairly. You must, after all is over 
have a number of ballads, properly so 
railed. Gill Morice, Tranent J\Iuir, JV/'- 
Pherson's F^arewell, Battle of Sheriff Muir, 
or We ran and they ran, (I know the au- 
thor of this charming ballad, and his his- 
tory), Jlardiknute, Barbara Allan, (I can 
furnish a finer set of this tunc than any 
that has yet appeared,) and besides, do 
you know that I really have the old tune 
to which The Cherry and the Slae was 
sung; and which is mentioned as -a well 
known air in Scotland's Complaint, a 
book published before poor Mary's days. 
It was then called The Banks o' Helicon; 
an old poem which Pinkerton has brought 
to light. You will see all this in Tytler's 
history of Scottish music. The tune, to 
a learned ear, may have no great merit; 
but it is a great curiosity. I have a good 
many original things of this kind. 



No. XLIII. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

September, 1793. 

I AM happy, my dear Sir, that my ode 
pleases you so much. Your idea " ho- 
nour's bod," is, though a beautiful, a hack- 
neyed idea; so, if you please, we will let 
the line stand as it is. I have altered the 
song as follows : 

BANNOCK-BURN. 

ROBERT BRUCe's ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY. 

Scots, wha hae wi' Walt- ace bled, 
Scots, wham Bruce has often led ; 

See Poems, p. 94. 

Jf. B. T have borrowed the last stanza 
from the common stall edition of Wallace. 

" a fnlse usurper siiikK in every foe, 
Aiiu liberty returns with every blow." 

A couplet worthy of Honipr. Yester- 
dnv you had enough ofiriy correspondence. 
The post goes, and my head aches mise- 



rably. One comfort ! — 1 suffer so muc-i, 
just now, in this world, for last night'a 
joviality, that I shall escape scot-free for 
it in the world to come. — Amen. 



No. XLIV. 
MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

\1th September, 1793. 

A THOUSAND thanks to you, my dear 
Sir, for your observations on the list of 
my songs. I am happy to find your ideas 
so much in unison with my own, respect- 
ing the generality of the airs, as well as 
the verses. About some of them we differ, 
but there is no disputing about hobby- 
horses. I shall not fail to profit by the 
remarks you make ; and to re-consider 
the whole with attention. 

Dainty Davy, must be sung two stanzas 
together, and then the chorus: 'tis the 
proper way. I agree with you that there 
may be something of pathos, or tender- 
ness at least, in the air of Fee him Father, 
when performed with feeling: but a ten- 
der cast may be given almost to any lively 
air, if you sing it very slowly, expressively, 
and with serious words. I am, however, 
clearly and invariably for retaining the 
cheerful tunes joined to their own humo- 
rous verses, wherever the verses are pass- 
able. But the sweet song for Fee him 
Father, which you began about the back 
of midnight, I will fniblish as an additional 
one. Mr James Balfour, the king of 
good fellows, and the best singer of the 
lively Scottish ballads that ever existed, 
has charmed thousands of companies with 
Fee him Father, and with Tod/in home 
also, to the old words, which never should 
be disunited from either of these airs — 
Some Bacchanals I would wish to discard. 
Fy, lets a' to the Bridal, for instance, is so 
coarse and vulgar, that I think it fit only 
to be sung in a company of drunken col- 
liers ; and Saw ye my Father? appears to 
me both indelicate and silly. 

One word more with regard to your 
heroic ode. I think, with great defer- 
ence to the poet, that a prudent general 
would avoid saying any thing to his sol- 
diers which would tend to make death 
more frightful than it is. Gory presents 
a disagroeahle image to the mind, and to 
tell them " Welcome to your gory bed,'' 



LETTEUS. 



215 



seems rather a discouraging address, not- 
withstanding the alternative which fol- 
lows. I have shown the song to three 
friends of excellent taste, and each of 
them objected to this line, whicli embol- 
dens me to use the freedom of bringing it 
again under your notice. I would sug- 
gest, 

" Now prerarc for honour's bed, 
Or for glorious victorie." 



No. XLV. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

September, 1793. 

" Who shall decide when doctors dis- 
agree?" My ode pleases me so much 
that I cannot alter it. Your proposed 
alterations would, in my opinion, make it 
tame. I am exceedingly obliged to you 
for putting me on reconsidering it ; as I 
think I have much improved it. Instead 
of " soger ! hero !" I will have it " Cale- 
donian ! on wi' me !" 

I have scrutinized it over and over ; and 
to the world some way or other it shall go 
as it is. At the same time it will not in 
'the least hurt me, should you leave it out 
altogether, and adhere to your first in- 
tention of adopting Logan's verses.* 

* Mr. Thomson has very properly adopted this song 
(if it may be so called,) as the bard presented it to him. 
He has attaclied it to the air of Lewie Gordon, and per- 
haps among tlie existing airs he could not tind a better ; 
but the poetry is suited to a much higher strain of mu- 
sic, and may employ the genius of some Scottish Han- 
del, if any such should in future arise. Tlie reader 
will have observed, that Burns adopted the alterations 
proposed by his friend and correspondent in former in- 
stances, with great readiness: perliaps, indeed, on all 
indKTerent occasions. In the present instancr, how- 
ever, he rejected them, though repeatedly urged, with 
determined resolution. Witli every respect for the 
judgment of Mr. Thomson and his friends, we may he 
satisfied tlint he did so. He, who in preparing for an 
engagement, attempts to withdraw liis imagination 
from images of death, will probably have but imperfect 
success, and is not fitted to stand in the ranks of battle, 
where the liberties of a kingdom are at issue. Of such 
men tlie conquerors of Dannockburn were not com po.s- 
ed. Bruce's troops were inured to war, and familiar 
with all its sufferings and dangers. On the eve of that 
niemorablo day, their spirits were, without doubt, wound 
up to a pitch of enthusiasm, suited to the occasion : a 
pitch of enthusiasm, at which danger becomes attrac- 
tive, and the most terrific forms of death are no longer 
terrible. Such a strainof sentiment, this heroic " wel- 



I have finished my song to Saw ye my 
Father? and in English, as you will see. 
That there is a syllable too much for tho 
expression of the air, is true ; but allow 
me to say, that the mere dividing of a 
dotted crochet into a crochet and a qua- 
ver, is not a great matter ; however, in 
that I have no pretensions to cope in 
judgment with you. Of the poetry I speak 
with confidence ; but the music is a busi- 
ness where I hint my ideas with the ut- 
most diffidence. 

The old verses have merit, though un- 
equal, and are popular : my advice is, to 
set the air to the old words, and let mine 
follow as English verses. Here they 
are — 

FAIR JENNY. 

Seep. 213. 

Tane— "Saw ye my Father?" 

Where are the joys I have met in the 
morning. 
That danc'd to the lark's early song? 

See Poems, p. 94. 

Adieu, my dear Sir ! the post goes, so 
I shall defer some other remarks until 
more leisure. 



come" may be supposed well calculated to elevate — to 
raise their hearts high above fear, and to nerve their 
arms to the utmost pitch of mortal exertion. These 
observations might be illustrated and supported by a 
reference to that martial poetry of all nations, from the 
spirit-stirring strains of 'I'yrticus, to the war-song of 
General Wolfe. Mr. Tiionison's observation, that 
" Welcome to your gory bed, is adiscouragingaddress," 
seems not sulhcienlly considered. Perhaps, indeed, it 
may be admitted, that the term gory is somewhat ob- 
jectionable, not on account of its jiresenting a frightful, 
but a disagreeable image to the mind. But a great poet, 
uttering his conceptions on an interesting occasion, 
seeks always to present a picture that is vivid, and is 
uniformly disposed to sacrifice the delicacies of taste on 
the altar of llie imagination. And it is the privilege of 
superior genius, by producing a new association, to ele- 
vate expressions that were originally low, and thus to 
triumph over the deficiencies of language. In how 
many instances might this be exemplified from the 
works of our immortal Shakspeare : 

" Who would fardels bear, 
To groan and sweat under a weary life ; — 
When he himself might his quietus make 
Witli a bare bodkin '." 

It were easy to enlarge, but to suggest such refioo 
tions is probably sufficient. 



216 



LETTERS. 



No. XL VI. 



MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

September, 1793. 

I HAVE been turning over some vo- 
lumes of songs, to find verses whose mea- 
sures would suit the airs, for which you 
have allotted me to find English songs. 

For Muirland Willie, you have, in Ram- 
say's Tea-table, an excellent song, begin- 
[\ino-, " Ah ! why those tears in Nelly's 
eyes ?" As for The Collier's Dochter, take 
the following old Bacchanal. 

Deluded swain, the pleasure 
The fickle Fair can give th.ee, 
See Poems, p. 94. 

The faulty line in Logan-Water, I mend 
thus : 

" How can your flinty hearts enjoy, 
The widow's tears, the orphan's cry V 

The song otherwise will pass. As to 
M'-Gregoira Run Ruth, you will see a 
song of mine to it, with a set of the air 
superior to yours, in the Museum, Vol. ii. 
p. 181. The song begins, 

" Raving winds around her blowing." 

Your Irish airs are pretty, but they are 
downright Irish. If they were like the 
Banks '^of Banna, for instance, though 
really Irish, yet in the Scottish taste, you 
might adopt them. Since you are so fond 
of Irish music, what say you to twenty- 
five of them in an additional number? 
We could easily find this qunntity of 
charming airs : I will take care that you 
shall not want songs ; and T assure you 
hat you would find it the most saleable 
of the whole. If you do not approve of 
Roy's Wife, for the music's sake, we shall 
not insert it. Deil take the wars, is a 
charming song ; so is. Saw ye my Peggy ? 
There's na luck about the house, well de- 
serves a place. I cannot say that. O'er 
the hills and far awa, strikes me as equal 
to your selection. This is no mine ain 
house, is a great favourite air of mine : 
and if you will send me your set of it, I 
will task my muse to her highest effort. 
What is your opinion of / /lae /aicZ a Her- 
rminsawt? I like it much. Your Jaco- 
bite airs are pretty ; and there are many 



others of the same kind, pretty ; but you 
have not room for them. You cannot, I 
think, insert Fie, let us a' to the bridal, 
to any other words than its own. 

What pleases me, as simple and naive, 
disgusts you as ludicrous and low. For 
this reason, Fie, gie me my cogie, sirs — 
Fie, let us a' to the bridal, with several 
others of that cast, are to me highly 
pleasing ; while, Saio ye my Father, or 
saw ye my Mother ; delights me with its 
descriptive simple pathos. Thus my song, 
Ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten? 
pleases myself so much that I cannot try 
my hand at another song to the air ; so I 
shall not attempt it. I know you will 
laugh at all this : but, " Ilka man wears 
his belt his ain gait." 



No. XLVII 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

October, 1793. 

Your last letter, my dear Thomson, 
was indeed laden with heavy news. Alas, 
poor Erskine I"^ The recollection that he 
was a coadjutor in your publication, has 
till now scared me from writing to you, 
or turning my thoughts on composing for 
you. 

I am pleased that you are reconciled to 
the air of the Quaker's Wife; though, by 
the by, an old Highland gentleman, and 
a deep antiquarian, tells me it is a Gaelic 
air, and known by the name o? Leiger 'm 
choss. The following verses, I hope, will 
please you as an English song to the air 

Thine am I, my faithful fair. 
Thine, my lovely Nancy ; 

See Poems, p. 94. 

Your objection to the English song 1 
proposed for Jo/m Jlnderson my jo, is cer- 
tainly just. The following is by an old 
acquaintance of mine, and I think has 
merit. The song was never in print, 
which I think is so much in your favour. 
'The more original good poetry your col- 
lection contains, it certainly has so much 
the more merit. 

* The Honourable A. Erskine, brother to Lord KeJly, 
whose melancholy death Mr. Thomson had communi- 
cated in an excellent letter, which he has suppressed. 



LETTERS. 



217 



SONG. 



BT GAVIN TURNBULL. 

O, CONDESCEND, dear charming maid, 
My wretched state to view ; 

A tender swain to love betray'd, 
And sad despair, by you. 

While here, all melancholy, 

My passion I deplore. 
Yet, urged by stern resistless fate, 

I love thee more and more. 

I heard of love, and with disdain. 
The urchin's power denied ; 

I laugh'd at every lover's pain. 

And mock'd them when they sigh'd. 

But how my state is alter'd ! 

Those happy days are o'er ; 
For all thy unrelenting hate, 

I love thee more and more. 

O, yield, illustrious beauty, yield, 

No longer let me mourn ; 
And though victorious in the field, 

Thy captive do not scorn. 

Let generous pity warm thee, 

My wonted peace restore ; 
And, grateful, I shall bless thee still. 

And love thee more and more. 



The following address of Turnbull's to 
tl ' Nightingale, will suit as an English 
song to the air. There was a lass and she 
ivus fair. By the by, Turnbull has a 
great many songs in MS. which I can com- 
mand, if you like his manner. Possibly, 
as he is an old friend of mine, T may be 
prejudiced in his favour, but I like some 
of his pieces very much. 



THE NIGHTINGALE. 

BT G. TURNBULL. 

Thou sweetest minstrel of the grove. 
That ever tried the plaintive strain, 

Awake thy tender tale of love. 
And soothe a poor forsaken swain. 



For though the muses deign to aid. 
And teach him smoothly to complain 

Yet Delia, charming, cruel maid. 
Is deaf to her forsaken swain. 

All day, with fashion's gaudy sons. 
In sport she wanders o'er the plain : 

Their tales approves, and still she shuns 
The notes of her forsaken swain. 

When evening shades obscure the sky. 
And bring the solemn hours again, 

Begin, sweet bird, thy melody. 
And soothe a poor forsaken swain. 



I shall just transcribe another of Turn 
bull's which would go charmingly to 
Lewie Gordon. 



LAURA. 



BY G. TURNBULL. 



Let me wander where I will, 
By shady wood or winding rill , 
Where the sweetest May-born flowers 
Paint the meadows, deck the bowers; 
Where the linnet's early song 
Echoes sweet the woods among: 
Let me wander where I will, 
Laura haunts my fancy still. 

If at rosy dawn I chnse, 

To indulge the smiling muse ; 

If I court some cool retreat. 

To avoid the noon-tide heat ; 

If beneath the moon's pale ray, 

Through unfrequented wilds I stray ; 

Let me wander where I will, 

Laura haunts my fancy still. 

When at night the drowsy god 
Waves his sleep-compelling rod. 
And to fancy's wakeful eyes 
Bids celestial visions rise ; 
While with boundless joy I rove, 
Thro' the fairy-land of^love, 
Let me wander where I will, 
Laura haunts my fancy still 



The rest of your letter I shall answer 
at some other opportunity. 



218 



LETTERS. 



No. XLVIII. 
MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

^th J^ovember, 1793. 

MT GOOD SIR, 

After so long a silence, it gave me 
peculiar pleasure to recognize your well- 
known hand, for I had begun to be ap- 
frehensive that all wasnot well with you. 
am happy to find, however, that your 
silence did not proceed from that cause, 
and that you have got among the ballads 
once more. 

I have to thank you for your English 
BOng to Leiger 'm choss, which I think 
extremely good, although the colouring 
IS warm. Your friend Mr. Tufnbull's 
songs have, doubtless considerable merit; 
and as you have the command of his 
manuscripts, I hope you will find out some 
that will answer, as English songs, to the 
airs yet unprovided. 



No. XLIX. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

December, 1793. 

Tell me how you like the following 
verses to the tune of J'o Janet. 

Husband, husband, cease your strife, 
Nor longer idly rave. Sir ; 

See Poems, p. 95. 



Wilt thou be my dearie ? 

When sorrow wrings thy gentle heart, 

Wilt thou let me cheer thee ? 

See Poems, p. 114. 



No. L. 
MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

Edinburgh, 17^ April, 1794. 

MT DEAR SIR, 

Owing to the distress of our friend for 
the loss of his child, at the time of his receiv- 
ing your admirable but melancholy letter, 



I had not an opportunity, till lately, of pe 
rusing it.* How sorry I am to find Burns 
saying, " Canst thou not minister to a 
mind diseased?" while he is delighting 
others from one end of the island to the 
other. Like the hypochondriac who went 
to consult a physician upon his case — Go, 
says the doctor, and see the famous Car- 
lini, who keeps all Paris in good humour. 
Alas ! Sir, replied the patient, I am that 
unhappy Carlini! 

Your plan for our meeting together 
pleases me greatly, and I trust that by 
some means or other it will soon take 
place ; but your Bacchanalian challenge 
almost frightens me, for I am a miserable 
weak drinker ! 

Allan is much gratified by your good 
opinion of his talents. He has just be- 
gun a sketch from your Cotter's Saturday 
JVight, and if it pleases himself in the de- 
sign, he will probably etch or engrave it. 
In subjects of the pastoral and humorous 
kind, he is perhaps unrivalled by any art- 
ist living. He fails a little in giving 
beauty and grace to his females, and hia 
colouring is sombre, otherwise his paint- 
ings and drawings would be in greater 
request. 

I like the music of the Sutor's Dochter, 
and will consider whether it shall be ad- 
ded to the last volume ; your verses to it 
are pretty : but your humorous English 
song, to suit Jo Janet, is inimitable. 
What think you of the air. Within a mile 
of Edinburgh? It has always struck me 
as a modern imitation, but it is said to be 
Oswald's, and is so much liked, that I be- 
lieve I must include it. The verses are 
little better than namby pamby. Do you 
consider it worth a stanza or two ^ 



No. LI. 



MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 
May, 1794. 

MY DEAR SIR, 

I RETURN you the plates, with which 
I am highly pleased ; I would humbly 
propose instead of the younker knitting 
stockings, to put a stock and horn into 

* A letter to Mr. Cunningham, No. CL. of the Ge- 
neral Correspondence. 



LETTERS. 



319 



his hands. A friend of mine, who is po- 
sitively the ablest judg'e on the subject I 
have ever met with, and though an un- 
known, is yet a superior artist with the 
Burin, is quite charmed with Allan's man- 
ner. I got him a peep of the Gentle Shep- 
herd ; and he pronounces Allan a most 
original artist of great excellence. 

For my part, I look on Mr. Allan's 
chusing my favourite poem for his subject, 
to be one of the highest compliments I 
have ever received. 

I am quite vexed at Pleyel's being 
cooped up in France, as it will put an en- 
tire stop to our work. Now, and for six 
or seven months, / shall be quite in song, 
as you shall see by and by. I got an air, 
pretty enough, composed by Lady Eliza- 
beth Heron, of Heron, which she calls 
The Banks of Cree. Cree is a beautiful 
romantic stream ; and as her Ladvship is 
a particular friend of mine, I have written 
the following song to it. 

BANKS OF CREE. 

Here is the glen, and here the bower ; 
An underneath the birchen shade ; 

See Poems, p. 95. 



No. LIL 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

July, 1794. 

Is there no news yet of Pleyel ? Or is 
your work to be at a dead stop, until the 
allies set our modern Orpheus at liberty 
from the savage thraldom of democratic 
discords ? Alas the day ! And wo is me ! 
That auspicious period pregnant with the 
happiness of millions.* — ****** 

I have presented a copy of your songs 
to the daughter of a much-valued and 
much-honoured friend of mine, Mr. Gra- 
ham, of Fintry. I wrote on the blank 
side of the title-page the following address 
to the young lady. 

Here, where the Scottish muse immortal 
lives 

* A portion of this letter has been left out for rea- 
«oas that will easily be imagined. 

C c2 



In sacred strains and tuneful numbers 
join'd, 

See Poems, p. 95 



No. LIII. 
MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

Edinburgh, lOth August, 1794. 

MY PEAR SIR, 

I OWE you an apology for having so 
long delayed to acknowledge the favour 
of your last. I fear it will be as you say, 
I shall have no more songs from Pleyel 
till France and we are friends ; but never- 
theless, I am very desirous to be prepared 
with the poetry ; and as the season ap- 
proaches in which your muse of Coila 
visits you, I trust I shall, as formerly, be 
frequently gratified with the result of 
your amorous and tender interviews ! 



No. LIV. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 



30<A August, 1794. 

The last evening, as I was straying 
out, and thinking of, O'er the hills andfar 
away, I spun the following stanzas for it; 
but whether my spinning will deserve to 
be laid up in store, like the precious thread 
of the silk-worm, or brushed to the devil, 
like the vile manufacture of the spider, I 
leave, my dear Sir, to your usual candid 
criticism. I was pleased with several 
lines in it at first : but I own that now it 
appears rather a flimsy business. 

This is just a hasty sketch, until I see 
whether it be worth a critique. We have 
many sailor songs, but as far as I at pre- 
sent recollect, they are mostly the effu- 
sions of the jovial sailor, not the wailing3 
of his love-lorn mistress. I must here 
make one sweet exception — Sweet Annie 
frae the sea-beach came. Now for the song. 

ON THE SEAS AND FAR AWAY. 

How can my poor heart be glad. 
When absent from my sailor lad ? 
See Poems, p. 96. 

I give you leave to abuse this song, but 
do it in the spirit of Christian meekness 



UZQ 



LETTERS. 



No. LV. 



MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

Edinburgh, 16th September, 1794. 

MY DEAR SIR, 

You have anticipated my opinion of 
On the seas and far away ; I do not think 
it one of your very happy productions, 
though it certainly contains stanzas that 
are worthy of all acceptation. 

The second is the least to my liking', 

particularly " Bullets, spare my only joy !" 
Confound the bullets ! It might, per- 
haps, be objected to the third verse, "At 
the starless midnight hour," that it has 
too much grandeur of imagery, and that 
greater simplicity of thought would have 
better suited the character of a sailor's 
sweetheart. The tune, it must be re- 
membered, is of the brisk, cheerful kind. 
Upon the whole, therefore, in my humlale 
opinion, the song would be belter adapted 
to the tune, if it consisted only of the first 
and last verses with the choruses. 



No. LVI. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

September, 1794. 

I SHALL withdraw my. On the seas and 
far away, altogether : it is unequal, and 
unvTorthy the work. Making a poem is 
like begetting a son : you cannot know 
whether you have a wise man or a fool, 
until you produce him to the world to try 
him. 

For that reason I send you the offspring 
of my brain, abortions and all ; and, as 
such, pray look over them, and forgive 
them, and burn* them. I am flattered at 
your adopting Ca^ the yowes to the knowes, 
as it was owing to me that ever it saw 
the light. About seven years ago I was 
well acquainted with a worthy little fel- 
low of a clergyman, a Mr. Clunie, who 
Bung it charmingly ; and, at my request, 
Mr. Clarke took it down from his singing. 
When I gave it to Johnson, I added some 

• This Virgilian order of the poet should, I think, be 
disobeyed with respect to the song in question, the se- 
cond stanza excepted. JVote brj Mr. Thomson. 

Doctors differ. The objection to the second stanza 
•Joes not strike the Editor. £. 



stanzas to ihe song and mended others, 
but still it will not do for you. In a soli- 
tary stroll wliich I took to-day, I tried my 
hand on a few pastoral lines, following 
up the idea of the chorus, which I would 
preserve. Here it is, with all its crudi 
ties and imperfections on its head. 



Ca' the yowes to the knowes, 

Ca' them where the heather grows. 

See Poems, p. 96. 

I shall give you my opinion of your 
other newly adopted songs my first scrib- 
bling fit. 



No. LVII. 

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 
September, 1794. 

Do you know a blackguard Irish song 
called Onag-h's Water-frdl 1 The air is 
charming, and I have often regretted tlie 
want of decent verses to it. It is too 
much at least for my humble rustic muse, 
to expect that every effort of hers shall 
have merit ; still I think that it is better 
to have mediocre verses to a favourite air, 
than none at all. On this principle I 
have all along proceeded in the Scots Mu- 
sical Museum ; and as that publication is 
at its last volume, I intend the following 
song to the air above-mentioned, for that 
work. 

If it does not suit you as an editor, you 
may be pleased to have verses to it that 
you can sing before ladies. 

SHE SAYS SHE Lo'eS ME BEST OF A*. 

Sae flaxen were her ringlets, 
Her eye-brows of a darker hue. 

See Poems, p. 96 

Not to compare small things with great, 
my taste in music is like the mighty 
Frederick of Prussia's taste in painting; 
we are told that he frequently admired 
what the connoisseurs decried, and al- 
ways without any hypocrisy confessed his 
admiration I am sensible that my taste 



LETTERS. 



22t 



;n music must be ineleg^ant and vulg-ar, 
aecauiie people of untlisputcd and culti- 
vated taste can find no merit in my fa- 
vourite tunes. Still, because I am cheaply 
pleased, is that any reason why I should 
deny myself that pleasure? Many of our 
strathspeys, ancient and modern, give me 
most exquisite enjoyment, where you and 
other judges would probably be showing 
disgust. For instance, I am just now 
making verses for Rothiemurchie' s Rant, 
an air which puts me in raptures ; and, in 
fact, unless I be pleased with the tune, I 
never can make verses to it. Here I have 
Clarke on my side who is a judge that I 
will pit against any of you. Rothiemur- 
chie, lie says, is an air both original and 
beautiful; and on his recommendation,! 
have taken the first part of the tune for a 
chorus, and the fourth or last part for the 
Bong. I am but two stanzas deep in the 
work, and possibly you may think and 
justly, that the poetry is as little worth 
your attention as the music* 

I have begun anew. Let me in this ae 
night. Do you think that we ought to 
retain the old chorus? t think we must 
retain both the old chorus and the first 
stanza of the old song. I do not al- 
together like the third line of the first 
stanza, but cannot alter it to please my- 
self. I am just three stanzas deep in it. 
Would you have the denoument to be suc- 
cessful or otherwise ? should she " let 
him in," or not ? 

Did you not once propose The Soio's 
Tail to Geordie, as an air for your work ? 
I am quite diverted with it ; but I ac- 
knowledge that is no mark of its real ex- 
cellence. I once set about verses for it, 
which I meant to be in the alternate way 
of a lover and his mistress chanting to- 
gether. I have not the pleasure of know- 
ing Mrs. Thomson's Christian name, and 
yuurs I am afraid is rather burlesque for 
sentiment, else I had meant to have made 
you the hero and heroine of the little 
piece. 

How do you like the following epi- 
gram, which I wrote the other day on a 
lovely young girl's recovery from a fever ? 
Doctor Maxwell was the physician who 
seemingly saved her from the grave ; and 
vO him I address the following. 

• In the nrisinal, follow liere two stanzas of a song, 
beginning " Lassie wi' the lint-while locks." 



TO DR. MAXWELL, 
On Miss Jessy Staig's Recovery. 

Maxwell, if merit here you crave, 

Tliat merit I deny : 
You save fair Jessy from the grave ? — 

An angel could not die. 

God grant you patience with this stu- 
pid epistle ! 



No. LVnit 

MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS, 

I PERCEIVE the sprightly muse is now 
attendant upon her favourite poet, whose 
wood-notes wild, are becoming as enchant- 
ing as ever. She says she lo'es me best of 
a\ is one of the pleasantest table-songs I 
have seen, and henceforth shall be mine 
when the song is going round. I'll give 
Cunningham a copy ; he can more pow- 
erfully proclaim its merit. I am far from 
undervaluing your taste for the strath- 
spey music ; on the contrary, I think it 
highly animating and agreeable, and 
that some of the strathspeys, when gra- 
ced with such verses as yours, will make 
very pleasing songs in the same way that 
rough Christians are tempered and soft- 
ened by lovely woman ; without whom, 
you know, they had been brutes. 

I am clear for having the Sow's Tail, 
particularly as your proposed verses to it 
are so extremely promising. Geordie, as 
you observe, is a name only fit for bur- 
lesque composition. Mrs. Thomson's 
name (Katherine) is not at all poetical. 
Retain Jeanie therefore, and make the 
other Jamie, or any other that sounds 
agreeably. 

Your Ca' the eices is a precious little 
morceau. Indeed, I am perfectly aston- 
ished and charmed with the endless vari- 
ety of your fancy. Here let me ask you, 
whether you never seriously turned your 
thoughts upon dramatic writing ? That is 
a field worthy of your genius, in which 
it might shine forth in all its splendor. 
One or two successful pieces upon the 
London stage would make your fortune. 
The rage at present is for musical dra- 
mas : few or none of those which have 
appeared since the Duenna, possess much 
poetical merit ; there is little in tht cox 



i2i 



LETTERS. 



duct of the fable, or in the dialogue, to 
interest the audience. They are chiefly 
vehicles for music and pageantry. I think 
you might produce a comic opera in three 
acts, which would live by the poetry, at 
the same time that it would be proper to 
take every assistance from her tuneful 
sister. Part of the songs, of course, 
would be to our favourite Scottish airs ; 
the rest might be left to the London com- 
poser — Storace for Drury-lane, or Shield 
for Covent-garden : both of them very 
able and popular musicians. I believe 
that interest and monceuvring are often 
necessary to h«ve a drama brought on ; 
so it may be with the namby pamby tribe 
of flowery scribblers ; but were you to ad- 
dress Mr. Sheridan himself by letter, and 
Bend him a dramatic piece, I am persuad- 
ed he would, for the honour of genius, 
give it a fair and candid trial. Excuse 
me for obtruding these hints upon your 
consideration.* 



No. LIX. 
MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

Edinburgh, 14th October, 1794. 

The last eight days have been devoted 
to there-examination of the Scottish col 
loctions. I have read, and sung, and 
fiddled, and considered, till I am half 
blind and wholly stupid. The few airs I 
have added are enclosed. 

Peter Pindar has at length sent me all 
the songs I expected from him, which are 
in general elegant and beautiful. Have 
you heard of a London collection of Scot- 
tish airs and songs, just published by Mr. 
Ritson, an Englishman ? I shall send you 
a copy. His introductory essay on the 
subject is curious and evinces great read- 
ing and research, but does not decide the 
question as to the origin of our melodies ; 
though he shows clearly that Mr. Tytler, 
in his ingenious dissertation, has adduced 
no sort of proof of the hypothesis he wish- 
ed to establish ; and that his classifica- 
tion of the airs according to the eras, 
when they were composed, is mere fancy 
and conjecture. On John Pinkerton, Esq. 
lie has no mercy ; but consigns him to 
damnation ! He snarls at my publication, 

• Our bard had before received the same advice, and 
certainly took it so far into consideration, as to have 
cast about for a subject. E. 



on the score of Pindar being engaged to 
write some songs for it ; uncandidly and 
unjustly leaving it to be inferred, that the 
songs of Scottish writers had been sent a 
packing to make room for Peter's ! Of 
you he speaks with some respect, but 
gives you a passing hit or two, for daring 
to dress up a little, some old foolish songs 
for the Museum. His sets of the Scottish 
airs, are taken, he says, from the oldest col- 
lections and best authorities : many of them, 
however, have such a strange aspect, and 
are so unlike the sets which are sung by 
every person of taste, old or young, in 
town or country, that we can scarcely 
recognize the features of our favourites 
By going to the oldest collections of our 
music, it does not follow that we find the 
melodies in their original state. These 
melodies had been preserved, we know 
not how long, by oral communication, be- 
fore being collected and printed ; and as 
different persons sing the same air very 
differently, according to their accurate or 
confused recollections of it, so even sup- 
posing the first collectors to have pos- 
sessed the industry, the taste, and dis- 
cernment to choose the best they could 
hear (which is far from certain,) still it 
must evidently be a chance, whether the 
collections exhibit any of the melodies in 
the state they were first composed. In 
selecting the melodies for my own collec- 
tion, I have been as much guided by the 
living as by the dead. Where these dif- 
fered, T preferred the sets that appeared 
to me the most simple and beautiful, and 
the most generally approved : and with- 
out meaning any compliment to my own 
capability of choosing, or speaking of the 
pains I have taken, I flatter myself tnat 
my sets will be found equally freed from 
vulgar errors on the one hand, and affect- 
ed graces on the other. 



No. LX. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 
19th October, 1794. 

MY DEAR FRIEND, 

By this morning's post I have your 
list, and, in general, I highly approve of 
it. I shall, at more leisure give you a 
critique on the whole. Clarke goes to 
your own town by to-day's fly, and I wish 
you would call on him and take his opi- 
nion in general : you know his taste is a 



LETTERS. 



S33 



standard. He will return here again in 
a week or two ; so, please do not miss 
asking for him. One thing I hope he 
will do, persuade you to adopt my favour- 
ite Cragie-hurn-wood, in your selection ; 
it is as great a favourite of his as of mine. 
The lady on whom it was made, is one of 
the finest women in Scotland ; and in fact 
[entre nous) is in a manner to me, what 
Sterne's Eliza was to him — a mistress, 
or friend, or what you will in the guileless 
simplicity of Platonic love. (Now don't 
put any of your squinting constructions 
on this or have any clish-maclaver about 
\t among our acquaintances.) I assure 
you that to my lovely friend you are in- 
debted for many of your best songs of 
mine. Do you think that the sober, giri- 
horse routine of existence, could inspire a 
man withlife, and love, and joy — could fire 
him with enthusiasm, or melt him with 
pathos, equal to the genius of your book ? 
No ! no ! — Whenever I want to be more 
than o>rdinary in song ; to be in some de- 
gree equal to your diviner airs ; do you 
imagine that I fast and pray for the ce- 
lestial emanation ^ Tout au contrarie ! I 
have a glorious recipe ; the very one that 
for his own use was invented by the di- 
vinity of healing and poetry, when erst 
he piped to the flocks of Admetus. I put 
myself in a regimen of admiring a fine 
woman ; and in proportion to the adora- 
bility of her charms, in the proportion 
you are delighted with my verses. The 
lightning of her eye is the godhead of 
Parnassus ; and the witchery of her smile, 
the divinity of Helicon ! 

To descend to business ; if you like my 
idea of When she cam hen she babbit, the 
following stanzas of mine, altered a little 
from what they were formerly when set 
to another air, may perhaps do instead of 
worse stanzas. 

SAW YE MT PHEtr. 

O, saw ye my dear, my Phely.' 
O, saw ye my dear, my Phely.'' 

See Poems, p. 97. 

Now for a few miscellaneotis remarks. 
The Po.iie, (in the Museum) is my com- 
position ; the air was taken down from 
Mrs. Buins's voice.* It is well known 

• T/(f Pos7> will be found in tliePonms, p, 113. This, 
and the oth( r poems of which hps;peal<s, liad appeared 
in Johnson's Museum, and Mr.T. had inquired wheth- 
er iliey were our bard's. 



in the West Country, but the old words 
are trash. By the by, take a look at the 
tune again, and tell me if you do not think 
it is the original from which Roslin Cas- 
tle is composed. The second part in par- 
ticular, for the first two or three bars, is 
exactly the old air. Strathallen's La- 
ment is mine ; the music is by our right 
trusty and deservedly well-beloved Allan 
Masterton. Donocht-Hend is not mine ; 
I would give ten pounds it were. It ap- 
peared first in the Edinburgh Herald; 
and came to the editor of that paper with 
the Newcastle post-mark on it.* Whis- 
tle o'er the lave o't is mine ; the music is 
said to be by John Bruce, a celebrated 
violin-player in Dumfries, about the be- 
ginning of this century. This I know, 
Bruce, who was an honest man, though a 
redwud Highlandman, constantly claimed 
it ; and by all the oldest musical people 
here, is believed, to be the author of it. 

Andrew and his cutty Gun The song 
to which this is set in the Museum is 
mine, and was composed on Miss Euphe- 

* The reader will be curious to see this poem, so 
highly praised by Burns. Here il is. 

Keen blaws the wind o'er Donocht-Head,t 

The snaw drives snelly thro' the dale ; 
The Gaber-Iunzie tirls my sneck, 

And shivering, tells his waefu' tale; 
" Cauld is the night, O let me in, 

And dinna let your minstrel fa' ; 
And dinna let his winding sheet 

Be naething but a wreath o' snaw. 

" Full ninety winters hae I seen, 

And piped where gor-cocks whirring flew j 
And mony a day I've danced, I ween, 

To lilts which from my drone I blew." 
My Eppie waked and soon she cried, 

' Get up, guidman, and let him in ; 
For weel ye ken the winter night 

Was short when he began his din.' 

My Eppie's voice O wow it's sweet, 

Even tho' she bans and scaulds a wee ; 
But when it's tuned to sorrow's tale, 

O, haith, it's doubly dear to me ; 
Come in, auld carl, I'll steer my fire, 

I'll make it bleeze a bonnie flame ; 
Your bluid is thin, ye've tint the gate. 

Ye should nae stray sae far frae ha)ne. 

"Nae hame have I," the minstrel said, 
" Sad party-strife o'erturn'd my ha' ; 

And weeping at the eve of life, 
I wander thro' a wreath o' snaw." 



This affecting poem is apparently Incomplete, 
author need not be ashamed to own himself, 
worthy of Burns, or of Macniel. K. 

t A mountain in the Noith. 



The 

It 13 



iu 



LETTERS. 



mia Murray, of Lintrose, commonly and 
deservedly called the Flower of Strath- 
more. 

Hov) long and dreary is the nis;ht ! I 
•net with some such words in a collection 
of songs somewhere, which I altered and 
enlarged ; and to please you, and to suit 
your favourite air, I have taken a stride 
or two across my room, and have ar- 
ranged it anew, as you will find on the 
other page. 



How long and dreary is the night, 
When I am frae my dearie ! 

See Poems, p. 97. 

Tell me how you like this. I differ 
from your idea of the expression of the 
tune. There is, to me, a great deal of 
tenderness in it. You cannot, in my opi- 
nion, dispense with a bass to your adden- 
da airs. A lady of my acquaintance, a 
noted performer, plays and sings at the 
Bame time so charmingly, that I shall ne- 
ver bear to see any of her songs sent into 
the world, as naked as Mr. What-d'ye- 
call-um has done in his London collec- 
tion.* 

These English songs gravel me to 
death. I have not that command of the 
language that I have of my native tongue. 
I have been at Duncan Gray, to dress it 
in English, but all I can do is deplorably 
Btupid. For instance ; 

SONG. 

Let not woman e'er complain 
Of inconstancy in love ; 

See Poems, p. 97. 

Sijice the above, I have been out in the 
country, taking a dinner with a friend, 
where T met with the lady whom I men- 
tioned in the second page in this odds- 
and-nnds of a letter. As usual T got into 
sono:: and returning home I composed the 
following : 

THE lover's morning SALUTK TO 
ms MISTRESS. 

Sleep'st thou or wak'st thou, fairest 
creature ; 

Mr. Ritson. 



Rosy morn now lifts his eye,*f 

See Poems, p. 86. 

If you honour my verses by setting the 
air to them, I will vamp up the old song, 
and make it English enough to be under- 
stood. 

I enclose you a musical curiosity, an 
East Indian air, which you would swear 
was a Scottish one. I know the authen- 
ticity of it, as the gentleman who brought 
it over, is a particular acquaintance of 
mine. Do preserve me the copy I send 
you, as it is the only one I have. Clarke 
has set a bass to it, and I intend putting 
it into the Musical Museum. Here fol- 
low the verses I intend for it. 

THE AULD MAN. 

But lately seen in gladsome green, 
The woods rejoic'd the day. 

See Poems, p. 98. 

I would be obliged to you if you would 
procure me a sight of Ritson's collection 
of English songs, which you mention in 
your letter. I will thank you for another 
information, and that as speedily as you 
please : whether this miserable drawling 
hotclipotch epistle has not completely 
tired you of my correspondence ? 



No. LXI. 
MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS 

Edinburgh, Tllh October, 1794. 

I AM sensible, my dear friend, that a 
genuine poet can no more exist without 

* From the fifth to the eleventh line of this song 
stood originally thus: 

Now to the streaming fountain, 

Or up the heathy mountain, 
Tlie liart, liiiid, and roe, freely wildly-wanton stray; 

In twining hazel bowers 

His lay ll)» linnet pours ; 

The lav'rock, &c. 

t The last ci^ht lines stood originally thus: 

When frae my Cliloris parted, 

Sad, cheerless, broken- hearted. fmy sR^/. 
The night's gloomy shades, cloudy, dark, o'ercast 

But when she charms my sight, 

In pride of beauty's light; 

When thro' my very heart 

Her blooming glories dart • 
'Tis then, 'tis then I wake to life, and joy. E. 



LETTERS. 



225 



his mistress than his meat. I wish I 

knew the adorable she whose bright eyes 
and witching smiles have so often enrap- 
tured the Scottish bard ! that I niigjit 
drink her sweet health when the toast is 
going round. Cragie-burn-wood, must 
certainly be adopted into my family, since 
she is the object of the song; but in the 
name of decency I must beg a new cho- 
rus-verse from you. Otobe lying' beyond 
thee, dearie, is perhaps a consummation to 
be wished, but will not do for singing in 
the company of ladies. The songs in 
your last will do you lasting credit, and 
suit the respective airs charmingly. I 
am perfectly of your opinion with respect 
to the additional airs. The idea of send- 
ing them into the world naked as they 
were born was ungenerous. Thoy must 
all be clothed and made decent by our 
friend Clarke. 

T find I am anticipated by the friendly 
Cunningham in sending you Ritson's 
Scottish collection. Permit me, there- 
fore, to present you with his English col- 
lection, which you will receive by the 
coach. I do not find his historical essay 
on Scottish song interesting. Your anec- 
dotes and miscellaneous remarks will, I 
am sure, be much more so. Allan has 
just sketched a charming design from 
Maggie Lauder. She is dancing with 
such spirit as to electrify the piper, who 
seems almost dancing too, while he is 
playing with the most exquisite glee. I 
am much inclined to get a small copy, 
and to have it engraved in the style of 
Ritson's prints. 

P. S. Pray what do your anecdotes 
eay concerning Maggie Lauder? was 
ehe a real personage, and of what rank ? 
You would surely spier for her if you ca'd 
at Anstruther town. 



No. LXIL 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

J^ovember, 1794. 

Many thanks to you, my dear Sir, for 
your present. It is a book of the utmost 
importance to me. I have yesterday be- 
gun my anecdotes, &c. for your work. I 
intend drawing it up in the form of a let- 
ter to you, which will save me from the te- 
dious, dull business of systematic arrange- 
ment. Indeed, as all I have to say con- 



sists of unconnected remarks, anecdotes, 
scraps of old songs, &c., it woujO oe im- 
possible to give the work a begmning, a 
middle, or an end, which the critics insist 
to be absolutely necessary in a work.* 
In my last I told you my objections to the 
song you had selected for J\Iy Lodging is 
on the cold ground. On my visit the 
other day to my fair Chloris (that is the 
poetic name of the lovely goddess of my 
inspiration,) she suggested an idea, which 
I, in my return from the visit, wrought 
into the following song. 

My Chloris, mark how green the groves, 
The primrose banks how fair ; 

See Poems, p. 98. 

How do you like the simplicity and ten- 
derness of this pastoral .-' I think it pretty 
well. 

I like your entering so candidly and so 
kindly into the story of Ma chere Amie. 
I assure you I was never more in earnest 
in my life, than in the account of that af- 
fair which I sent you in my last. — Con- 
jugal love is a passion which I deeply 
feel, and highly venerate ; but, somehow, 
it does not make such a figure in poesy 
as that other species of the passion, 

" Where love is liberty, and Nature law." 

Musically speaking, the first is an instru- 
mentof whichthe gamut isscanty and con- 
fined, but the tones inexpressibly sweet ; 
while the last has powers equal to all the 
intellectual modulations of the human 
soul. Still I am a very poet in my enthu- 
siasm of the passion. The welfare and 
happiness of the beloved object is the first 
and inviolate sentiment that pervades my 
soul ; and whatever pleasures I might 
wish for, or whatever might be the rap- 
tures they would give me, yet, if they in- 
terfere with that first principal, it is hav- 
ing these pleasures at a dishonest price ; 
and justice forbids, and generosity dis- 
dains the purchase ! * * * * 

Despairing of my own powers to give 
you variety enough in English songs, I 
have been turning over old collections, to 
pick out songs, of which the measure is 
something similar to what I want ; and, 
with a little alteration, so as to suit the 

* It does not appear vfhether Burns completed these 
anecdotes, &;c. Something of the kind probably the 
rude draughtsjwas found amongst his papers, and ap- 
pears in Appendix No. II. Note B. 



S26 



LETTERS 



rhythm of the air exactly, to give you 
them for your work. Where the songs 
have hitherto been but little noticed, nor 
have ever been set to music, I think the 
shift a fair one. A song, which, under 
the same first verse, you will find in Ram- 
say's Tea-Table Miscellany, I have cut 
down for an English dress to your Dain- 
tie Davie, as follows : 

SONG 

Altered from an old English one. 

It was the charming month of May, 
When all the flowers were fresh and gay, 
See Poems, p. 98. 

You may think meanly of this, but take 
a look at the bombast original, 'and you 
will be surprised that I have made so much 
of it. I have finished my song to Rothie- 
murchie's Rant ; and you have Clarke to 
consult as to the set of the air for singing 

LASSIE Wl' THE LINT-WHITE LOCKS.* 



Lassie wi' the lint-v)hite locks, 
Bonnie lassie, artless lassie. 

See Poems, p. 90. 

This piece has at least the merit of be- 
ing a regular pastoral : the vernal morn, 
the summer noon, the autumnal evening, 
and the winter night, are regularly round- 
ed. If you like it, well : if not, I will in- 
sert it in the Museum. 

I am out of temper that you should set 
so sweet, so tender an air, as Deil tak the 
wars, to the foolish old verses. You talk 
of the silliness of Saw ye my father ? by 
heavens ! the odds is gold to brass ! Be- 
sides, the old song, though now pretty 
well modernized into the Scottish lan- 
guage, is originally, and in the early edi- 
tions, a bungling low imitation of the 
Scottish manner, by that genius Tom 
D'Urfey ; so has no pretensions to be a 
Scottish production. There is a pretty 
English song by Sheridan, in the Duenna, 
to this air, which is out of sight superior 
to D'Urfey's. It begins, 

• In some of the MSS. the last stanza of this song 
runs thus: 

Anil should the howling wint'ry blast 
Disturb my lassie's mifliiiilit rest, 
ru fauld thee to my faitliAi' bipnst, 
And coinfoi! ihce mv dearie O 



' When sable night each drooping plant restoring.* 

The air, if I understand the expression of 
it properly, is the very native language of 
simplicity, tenderness and love. I have 
again gone over my song to the tune as 
follows.* 

Now for my English song to Jfancy's 
to the greenwood, &fc 

Farewell thou stream that windingflows 
Around Eliza's dwelling ! 

See Poems, p. 99. 

There is an air, T%e Caledonian HunVs 
Delight, to which I wrote a song that you 
will find in Johnson. 

Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon; 
this air, I think, might find a place among 
your hundred, as Lear says of his knights. 
Do you know the history of the air ? It 
is curious enough. A good many years 
ago, Mr. James Miller, writer in your 
good town, a gentleman whom possibly 
you know, was in company with our friend 
Clarke ; and talking of Scottish music, 
Miller expressed an ardent ambition to be 
able to compose a Scots air. Mr. Clarke, 
partly by way of joke, told him to keep 
to the black keys of the harpsichord, and 
preserve some kind of rhythm ; and he 
would infallibly compose a Scots air. 
Certain it is, that, in a few days, Mr. 
Miller produced the rudiments of an air, 
which Mr. Clarke with some touches and 
corrections, fashioned into the tune in 
question. Ritson, you know, has the 
same story of the black keys; but thig 
account which I have just given you, Mr. 
Clarke informed me of several years ago. 
Now to show you how difficult it is to 
trace the origin of our airs, I have heard 
it repeatedly asserted that this was an 
Irish air ; nay, I met with an Irish gentle- 
man who affirmed he had heard it in Ire- 
land among the old women ; while, on the 
other hand, a Countess informed me, that 
the first person who introduced the air 
into this country, was a baronet's lady of 
her acquaintance, who took down the 
notes from an itinerant piper in the Isle 
of Man. How difficult then to ascertain 
the truth respecting our poesy and music. 
I, myself have lately seen a couple of bal 

* Sec the song in its first and best dress in page 219. 
" Our bard remarks upon it, " 1 could easily throw this 
Into an English mould ; but, to my taste, in the simplft 
and the tender of the pastoral snng, a sprinkling of \i» 
old Scottish has an inimitable effect." E 



LETTERS. 



227 



lads sung through the streets of Dumfries 
with my name at the head of them as the 
author, though it was the first time I had 
ever seen them. 

I thank yon for admitting Crng-ie-hiirn- 
ivood ; and I shall take care to furnish you 
with a new cliorus. In fact the chorus 
was not my work, but a part of some old 
verses to the air. If I can catch myself 
in a more than ordinarily propitious mo- 
ment, I shall write a new Crngie-burn- 
wood altogether. My heart is much in 
the theme. 

I am ashamed, my dear fellow, to make 
the request ; 'tis dunning your generosity; 
but in a moment, when I had forgotten 
whether I was rich or poor, I promised 
Chloris a copy of your songs. It wrings 
my honest pride to write you this : but 
an ungracious request is doubly so by a 
tedious apology. To make you some 
amends, as soon as I have extracted the 
necessary information out of them, I will 
return you Ritson's volumes. 

The lady is not a little proud that she 
is to make so distinguished a figure in 
5'our collection, and I am not a little proud 
that I have it in my power to please her 
BO much. Lucky it is for your patience 
that my paper is done, for when I am in 
a scribbling humour I know not when to 
give over. 



No. LXIII. 
MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

13<A J^ovemher, 1794. 

MY GOOD SIR, 

Since receiving your last, I have had 
another interview with Mr. Clarke, and 
a long consultation. He thinks the Ca- 
ledonian Hunt is more Bacchanalian than 
amorous in its nature, and recommends it 
to you to match the air accordingly. Pray 
did it ever occur to you how peculiarlv 
well the Scottish airs are adapted for ver- 
ses in the form of a dialogue? The first 
part of the air is generally low, and suit- 
ed for a man's voice, and the second part 
in many instances cannot bpsung, at con- 
cert pitch, but by a tVmale voice. A song 
thus pf-rformed makes an agreeable va- 
riety, but few of ours are written in this 
D d 



form : I wish you would think of it in 
some of those that remain. The only 
one of the kind you have sent me is ad- 
mirable, and will be a universal favourite. 

Your verses for Rothiemurchie are so 
sweetly pastoral, and your serenade to 
Chloris, for Did lak the wars, so passion 
ately tender, that I have sung myself in 
to raptures with them. Your song for 
J)Iy Iods:ing is on the cold ground, is like- 
wise a diamond of the first water; and I 
am quite dazzled and delighted by it. 
Some of your Chlorises I suppose have 
flaxen hair, from your partiality for this 
colour ; else we difl^er about it ; for I 
should scarcely conceive a woman to be 
a beauty, on reading that she had lint- 
white locks. 

Farewell thou stream that winding flown, 
I think excellent, but it is much toi. se- 
rious to come after JVancy ; at least it 
would seem an incongruity to provide the 
same air with merry Scottish and melan- 
choly English verses I The more that the 
two sets of verses resemble each other in 
their general character, the better. Those 
you have manufactured for Dainty Davie 
will answer charmingly. I am happy to 
find you have begun your anecdotes ! I 
care not how long they be, for it is im- 
possible that any thing from your pen can 
be tedious. Let me beseech you not to 
use ceremony in telling me when you 
wish to present any of your friends with 
the songs : the next carrier will bring 
you three copies, and you are as welcome 
to twenty as to a pinch of snuff. 



No. LXIV. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

19th J^ovemher, 1794. 

You see, my dear Sir, what a punctual 
correspondent I am ; though indeed you 
may thank yourself for the fedivm of my 
letters, as you have so flattered me on 
my horsemanship with my favourite hob- 
bv, and praised the grace of his ambling 
so much, that I am scarcely ever off" his 
back. For instance, this morning, though 
a keen blowing frost, in my walk before 
breakfast, I finished my duet which you 
were pleased to praise so much. Wheth- 
er I have uniformly succeeded, I will not 
say ; but here it is for you, though it is 
not an hour old. 



228 



LETTERS. 



Philly, happy be that day 
When roving through the gather'd hay, 

See Poems, p. 99. 

Tell ine honestly how you like it ; and 
oint out whatever you think faulty. 

1 am much pleased with your idea of 
singing our songs in alternate stanzas, 
and regret tliat you did not hint it to me 
sooner. In those that remain, I sliall 
have it in my eye. I remember your 
objections to the name Philly ; but it is 
the common abbreviation of Phillis. Sal- 
ly, the only other name that suits, has to 
my ear a vulgarity about it, which unfits 
it for any thing except burlesque. The 
legion of Scottish poetasters of the day, 
whom your brother editor, Mr. Ritson, 
ranks with me, as my coevals, have al- 
ways mistaken vulgarity for simplicity: 
whereas, simplicity is as much eloignee from 
vulgarity on the one hand, as from affected 
point and puerile conceit on the other. 

I agree with you as to the air, Cragie- 
burn-wood, that a chorus would in some 
degree spoil the effect ; and shall certain- 
ly liave none in my projected song to it. 
It is not however a case in point with Ro- 
fJiiemurchic ; there, asm Boy's WifeofAl- 
divaloch, a chorus goes, to my taste, well 
rnougli. As to the chorus going first, that 
is the case with Roy's Wife, as well as 
Rothiemurchie. In fact, in the first part 
of both tunes, the rhythm is so peculiar 
and irregular, and on that irregularity de- 
pends so much of their beauty, that we 
must e'en take them witli all their wild- 
ness, and humour the verses accordingly. 
Leaving out the starting note, in both 
times has, I think, an effect that no re- 
gularity could counterbalance the want of. 

Try 

O Roy's Wife of Aldivaloch. 

O Lassie wi' the lint-white locks. 

and compare with, 

Roy's Wife of Aldivaloch. 
Lassie wi' tlic lint-white locks. 

Does not the tamenoss of the prefixed 
eyllablo strike you ' In the last case, with 
the true furor of genius, you strike at 
once into the wild originality of tlie 
air: whereas in the first insipid metliod, 



it is like the grating screw of the pins be- 
fore the fiddle is brought into tune. Tliis 
is my taste ; if I am wrong, I beg pardon 
of the cognoscenti. 

The Caledonian Hunt is so charming 
that it would make any subject in a song 
go down ; but pathos is certainly its na- 
tive tongue. Scottish Bacchanalians we 
certainly want, though the few we hove 
are excellent. For instance, Todiln 
Home, is, for wit and Juunour, an un- 
paralleled composition; and Andrew and 
his cutty gun, is the work of a master. 
By the way, are you not quite vexed to 
think that those men of genius, for sucn 
they certainly were, who composed our 
fine Scottish lyrics, should be unknown? 
It has given me many a heart-ache. ^- 
propos to Bacchanalian songs in Scottish ; 
I composed one yesterday, for an air I 
like nmcli — Lumps o' Pudding. 

Contented wi' little, and canty wi' mair, 
Whene'er I forgather wi' sorrow and care, 

See Poems, p. 97. 

If you do not relish this air, I will send 
it to Johnson. 

Since yesterday's penmanship, I have 
framed a couple of English stanzas, by 
way of an English song to Roy's Wife. 
You will allow me that in this instance, 
my English corresponds in sentiment 
with the Scottish. 

CANST THOU LEAVE ME THUS, MY KATY ? 



Canst thou leave me thus, my Knty ? 
Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy ?* 

See Poems p. 100. 

* To this address, in tlin cliaracter of a foisaken 'o- 
ver, a reply was found on the part of the kuly, among 
the MPS. of our bard, evidently in a female hand-wri 
tni^ ; which is doubtless that referred to in p. 213, let- 
ter No. XLII. JVotc. Tlie temptation to give it to the 
public is irresistible ; and if, in so doing, offence should 
be given to the fair authoress, the beauty of her verses 
must plead our e.xcuse- 

Tune — ' Roy's Wife.' 



Stny, my Willie — yet believe me, 

Stay, my Willie — yet believe me, 

For, ah! thou know'st na every pan 

Wad wring' my bosom shouldst thou leave VU- 

Tell me that thou yet art true, 

And a' my wr(inj;s shall be forgiven, 



LETTERS. 



Wc I ! I think this, to be done in two 
oi three turns across my room, and with 
two or three pinches of Irisli Blackguard, 
is not so far amiss. You sec I am de- 
termined to luive my quantum of applause 
from somebody. 

Tell my friend Allan (for I am sure that 
we only want the trillintr circumstance of 
being known to one another, to be the 
best friends on earth) that I much sus- 
pect he has, in his i)latcs, mistaken the 
figure of the stock and horn. I have, at 
last, gotten one ; but it is a very rude in- 
strument. It is composed of three parts ; 
the stock, which is the hinder thigh-bone 
of a sheep, such as you see in a mutton 
ham ; the horn, which is a common High- 
land cow's horn, cut off at the smaller 
end, until the aperture be large enough to 
admit the stock to be pushed up through 
the horn until it be held by the thicker end 
of the thigh-bone ; and lastly, an oat- 
en reed exactly cut and notched like that 
which you see every shepiierd boy have, 
when the corn-stems arc green and full- 
grown. The reed is not made fast in the 
bone, but is held by the lips, and plays 
loo«e in the smaller end of the stock : 
while the stock, with the horn hangmg on 
its larger end, is held by the hands in play- 
ing. The stock has six or seven venti- 
ges on the upper sides, and one back ven- 
tige, like the common ilute. This of 
mine was made by a man from the braes 
of Athole, and is exactly what the shep- 
herds wont to use in that country. 

However, either it is not quite proper- 
ly bored in the holes, or else we have 
not the art of blowing it rightly ; for we 

And when this heart proves faiise to thee, 
Yon sun shall ceaso its course in lieavcn. 
Stay 'r.y IVillic, <$-c. 

But to thiiil< I was hetray'd, 
That ra"sehoo(l e'er our lovus should sunder ! 

To take the flow'rnt to my breast, 
And find the Kuilefu' serpent under ! 

Slay my Willie, c^-c. 

Could I hope thou'dst ne'er deceive, 
Celestial pleasur-^s, might I choose 'em, 
d slluht, nor seek in other spheres 
Thai heaven I'd find within thy bosom. 
Stay my IVillie, ^c. 

It may amuse the reader to be told, that on this oc- 
casion the Rentleman and the lady have exchanged the 
dialects of their respective countries. The Scottish 
hard Miak"s his address in pure English : the reply on 
the part of the lady, in the Scottish dialect, is, if we 
niUtake not, by a young and h>^autiful Englisliwo- 
inun £k 



can make little of it. If Mr. Allan 
chooses I will send him a sight of mine; 
as I look on myself to be a kind of bro- 
ther-brush with him. " Pride in Poets is 
nae sin ;" and I will say it, that I look on 
Mr. Allan and Mr. Burns to be the only 
genuine and real painters of Scottish cos- 
tume in the world. 



No. LXV. 
MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS 

2Qth J\rovemher, 1794. 

I ACKNOWLEDGE, my dear Sir, you are 
not only the most punctual, but the most 
delectable correspondent I ever met with. 
To attempt flattering you, never entered 
into my head ; the truth is, I look back 
with surprise at my impudence, in si3 
frequently nibbling at lines and couplets 
of your incomparable lyrics, for which, 
perhaps, if you had served me right, yoii 
would have sent me to the devil. On the 
contrary, however, you have all along 
condescended to invite my criticism with 
so much courtesy, that it ceases to be 
wonderful. If I have sometimes given my- 
self the airs of a reviewer. Your last 
budget demands imqualified praise : all 
the songs are charming, but the duet is a 
c/irf (V cnuvre. Lumvn o' Puthlini:; shall 
certainly make one of my family dishes ; 
you have cooked it so capitally, that it 
will please all palates. Do give us a few 
more of this cast when you find yourself 
in good spirits ; these convivial songs are 
more wanted than those of the amorous 
kind, of which, we have great choice. 
Besides, one docs not often meet with 
a singer capable of giving the proper 
effect to the latter, while the former 
are easily sung, and acceptable to every 
body. I participate in your regret that 
the authors of some of our best songs are 
unknown ; it is provoking to every ad- 
mirer of genius. 

I mean to have a picture painted from 
your beautiful ballad, 7V;e SoUUcr's Re- 
turn, to be engraved for one of my fron 
tispieces. The most interesting po]ut of 
time appears to me, when she first recog- 
nizes her ain dear Willy, " She gaz'd, she 
redden'd like a rose." The throv* lines 
immediately following are no doubt more 
impressive on the reader's feelings, but 



230 



LETTERS. 



were the painter to fix on these, then 
you'll observe the animation and anxiety 
of her countenance is gone, and he could 
only represent her tainting in the soiuier's 
arms. But I submit the matter to you, 
and beg your opinion. 

Allan desires me to thank you for your 
accurate description of the stock and horn, 
and for the very gratifying compliment 
you pay him in considering him worthy of 
standing in a niche by the side of Burns 
in the Scottish Pantheon. lie has seen 
the rude histrument you describe, so does 
not want you to send it ; but wishes to 
know whether you believe it to have ever 
been generally used as a musical pipe by the 
Scottish shepherds, and when, and in what 
part of the country chiefly. I doubt much 
if it was capable of anything but iouting 
nnd roaring. A friend of mine says he re- 
members to have heard one in his younger 
days made of wood instead of your bone, 
and that the sound was abominable. 

Do not, I beseech you, return any books. 



No. LXVI. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON 

December, 1794. 
It is, I assure you, the pride of my 
heart, to do any thing to forward, or add 
to the value of your book ; and as I agree 
with you that the Jacobite song in the 
Museum, to There'll never be peace till 
Jamie comes hame, would not so well con- 
sort with Peter Pindar's excellent love- 
song to that air, I have just framed for 
you the following : 

MT Nannie's awa. 

Now in her green mantle blithe nature 

arrays. 
And listens the lambkins that bleat o'er 

the braes. 

See Poems, p. 100. 

How does this please you ? As to the 
point of time for the expression, in your 
proposed print from my Sodi::;er's Return, 
it must certainly be at — " She gaz'd." 
The interesting dubiety and suspense 
taking possession of her countenance, and 
the gusliing fondness with a mixture of 
roguish playfulness in his, strike me, as 
things of whicl) a master will make a 
great deal. In great haste, but in great 
truth, vov.rs. 



No. LXVII. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

January, 1795. 

I FEAR for my songs ; however a fe\» 
may please, yet originality is a coy fea- 
ture in composition, and in a multiplicity 
of efforts in the same style, disappears 
altogether. For these three thousand 
years, we poetic folks, have been describ- 
ing the spring, for instance ; and as the 
spring continues the same, there must 
soon be a sameness in the imagery, &c. 
of these said rhyming folks. 

A great critic, Aikin, on songs, says, 
that love and wine are the exclusive 
themes for song-writing. The following 
is on neither subject, and consequently ij 
no song; but will he allowed, I think, to ha 
two or three pretty good prose thoughts 
inverted into rhyme. 

FOR a' that and a' THAT. 

Is there, for honest poverty, 
That hangs his head and a' that ; 

See Poems^ p. lOO. 

I do not give you the foregoing song 
for your book, but merely by way of vive 
la bagatelle ; for the piece is not really 
poetry. How will the following do for 
Craigie-burn-wood ?* 

Sweet fa's the eve on Cragie-burn, 
And blithe awakes the morrow ; 
See Poems, p. 101. 

Farev/ell ! God bless you. 



No. LXVIII. 
MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 
Edinburgh, 30th January, 1795. 

MY DEAR SIR, 

I THANK you heartily for J^nnnie's 
awa, as well as for Craigic-burn, which 

* Craigieburii-wood is siuiated on the banks of tho 
river Moffat, and about three miles distant from 1 lie vil- 
lage of that name, celebrated for its niedicinal waters. 
— The woods of Crai<;iel)urn andof Diimcrief, were at 
one time favourite haunts of our pn.»t. It was there he 
met the " Lassie wi' the lint-white locks," and tliat he 
conceived several of his beautil'ul lyiics. K 



LETTERS. 



231 



[ think a very comely pair. Your obser- 
v!i;iiui oil the difticulty of original writing 
III n mnnber of etlbrts, in the same style, 
t:trik(^s tiie very forcibly : and it has again 
aii'l again excited my wonder to find you 
cniuiuually surmounting this difficulty, in 
the many delightful songs you have sent 
inr". Your vive la bagatelle song. For a' 
that, shall undoubtedly, be included in my 
list. 



No. LXIX. 

ML. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

February, 1795. 
Here is another trial at your favour- 



ite air. 



O Lassie, art thou sleeping yet ? 
Or art thou wakin, I would wit ? 
See Poems, p. 101. 



HER ANSWER. 



O tell na me o' wind and rain, 
Upbraid me na wi' cauld disdain ! 

I do not know whether it will do. 



No. LXX. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 
Ecclefechan, 1th Feb., 1795. 

MY DEAR THOMSON, 

You cannot have any idea of the pre- 
dicament in which I write to you. In the 
course of my duty as Supervisor (in which 
capacity I have acted of late,) I came yes- 
ternight to this unfortunate, wicked, little 
village. I have gone forward, but snows 
of ten feet deep have impeded my pro- 
gress ; I have tried to " gae back the gait 
I cam again," but the same obstacle has 
shut me up within insuperable bars. To 
add to my niisfortune, since dinner, a 
Bcraper has been torturing catgut,in sounds 
that would have insulted the dying ago- 
nies of a sow under the hands of a butcher, 
and tliinks himself, on that very account, 
exceeding goou c^'ripany. In fact, I have 
been in a dilemma, either to get drunk, 
to forget these miseries, or to hang my- 



self to get rid of them ; like a prudent 
man (a character congenial to my every 
thought, word, and deed,) I of two evils, 
have chosen the least, and am very drunk, 
at your service !* 

I wrote to you yesterday from Dum- 
fries. I had not time then to tell you all 
I wanted to say ; and heaven knows, at 
present I have not capacity. 

Do you know an air — I am sure you 
must know it, We II gang nae mair to yon 
town ? I think, m slowish time, it would 
make an excellent song. I am highly de- 
lighted with it ; and if you should think 
it worthy of your attention, I have a fair 
dame in my eve to whom I would conse- 
crate it. 

As I am just going to bed, I wish you 
a good night. 



No. LXXI 

MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

25<^ February, 1795. 
I HAVE to thank yon, my dear Sir, for 
two epistles, one containing Let me in this 
ae night ; and the other from Ecclefechan, 
proving, that drunk or sober, your "mind 
is never muddy." You have displayed 
great address in the above song. Her 
answer is excellent, and at the same time, 
takes away the indelicacy that otherwise 
would have attached to his entreaties. 
I like the song as it now stands, very 
much. 

I had hopes you would be arrested 
some days at Ecclefechan, and be obliged 
to beguile the tedious forenoons by song- 
making. It will give me pleasure to re- 
ceive the verses you intend for O wat ye 
wha's in yon town ? 



No. LXXII. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON 

May, 1795. 

ADDRESS TO THE WOODLARK. 

O STAY, sweet warbling woodlark, stay, 
Nor quit for me the trembling spray. 
See Poems, p. 102. 

• Ttie bard must have been tipsy indeed, to abuse 
sweet Ecclofechan at this lute. U, 



^ss 



LETTERS. 



Let me know, your very first leisure, 
how you like this song. 

ON CHLORIS BEING ILL. 



ion/j-, Zowif the ni^hl^ 

Heavy comes the morrow, 

See Poems, p. 102. 

How do you like the foregoing ? The 
Irish air, Humours of Olen, is a great fa- 
vourite of mine ; and as, except the silly 
stuff in the Poor Soldier, there are not 
any decent verses for it, I have written 
for it as follows : 

SONG. 

Their groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign 
lands reckon. 
Where bright-beaming summers exalt 
the perfume ; 

See Poems, p. 102. 



was my 



SONG. 

'Twas na her bonnic blue e'e 
ruin; 

Fair tho' she be, that was ne'er my undo- 
ing; 

See Poems, p. 1 02. 
Let mo hear from you. 



No. Lxxin. 

MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

You must not think, my good Sir, that 
I have any intention to enhance the value 
of my gift, when I say, in justice to the 
ingenious and wortliy artist, that tlio de- 
sign and execution of the Cotter's Satur- 
day Niglit is, in my opinion, one of the 
happiest productions of Allan's pencil. I 
sliall be grievously disajjpointed if you 
are not quite pleased with it. 

Tho figure intended for your .portrait, 
T think strikingly like you, as far as I can 
remember your pliiz. This should make 
tlie piece interesting to your fiimily every 
way. — Tell nu^ whet her" Mrs. Burns finds 
you out among tiie figures. 

I cannot express the feeling of admira- 
tion with which I have read your patlietic 



Address to the Wood-Lark, your elegant 
Panegyric on Caledonia, and your all'ect- 
ing versos on Chloriss illness. l<>ery 
repeated perusal of tliese gives new de- 
ligiit. The otlier song to " Laddie, lie 
near me," though not equal to these, is 
very pleasing. 



No. LXXIV. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON 

How cruel arc the parents, 
Who riches only prize ; 

See Poems, p. 1 02. 



SONG. 



IMark yonder pomp of costly fashion, 
Round the wealthy, titled bride ; 

See Poems, p. 103. 

Well ! this is not amiss. You see how 
I answer your orders; your tailor could 
not be more punctual. 1 am just now in 
a high fit for poetizing, provided that the 
strait jacki^t of criticism don't cure me. 
If you can in a post or two administer a 
little of the intoxicating portion of your 
a])plause, it will raise your humble ser- 
vant's frenzy to any height you want. I 
am at this moment "■' holding high con- 
verse" with the Muses, and have not a 
word to throw away on such a prosaic 
dog as you are. 



No. LXXV. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

May, 1795. 

Ten thousand thanks for your elegant 
present : though I am ashamed of the va 
lue of it being bestowed on a man who 
has not by any means merited such an in- 
stance of kindness. I have shown it to 
two or three jtulges of the first abilities 
here, and they all agree with me in class- 
ing it as a first rate production. My 
phis is sap ken-speckle, that t he very joiner's 
apprentice whom Mrs. Burns employed 
to break up the parcel (I was out of town 
that day,) knew it at once. — My most 
grateful compliments to Allan, who has 
honoured my rustic muse so much with 
his masterly pencil. One strange coin- 



LETTERS. 



233 



cidenc^ is, that the little one who is ma- 
king the felonious attempt on the cat's 
taiC is the most striking' likeness of an 
ill-decdie, d — n'</, wee, rtimble-gairie, ur- 
chin of mine, whom, from that propensity 
to witty wickedness, and manfu' mischief, 
which even at two days aiild, I foresaw 
would form the strikinrr features of his 
disposition, T named Willie Nicol, after a 
certain friend of mine, who is one of the 
masters of a grammar-school in a city 
which shall be nameless. 

Give the enclosed epigram tomymuch- 
%'alued friend Cunningham, and tell him 
tiiat on Wednesday I go to visit a friend 
of his, to whom his friendly partiality in 
speaking of me, in a manner introduced 
me — I mean a woll-known military and 
literary character, Colonel Dirom. 

You do not tell me how you liked my 
two last songs. Are they condemned ? 



No. LXXVII. 



No. LXXVI. 
MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

UthMay, 1795. 

It gives me great pleasure to find that 
you are so well satisfied with Mr. Allan's 
production. The chance resemblance of 
your little fellow, whose promising dispo- 
sition appeared so very early, and sug- 
gested whom he should be named after, 
IS curious enough. I am acquainted with 
that person, who is a prodigy of learning 
and genius, and a pleasant fellow, though 
no saint. 

You really make me blush when you 
tell me you have not merited the drawing 
from me. I do not think 1 can ever re- 
pay you, or suflTicicntly esteem and re- 
spect you for the liberal and kind man- 
ner in which you have entered into the 
spirit of my undertaking, which could not 
have been perfected without you. So I 
beg you would not make a fool of me 
again, by speaking of obligation. 

1 like your two last songs very much, 
Bnd am happy to find you are in such a 
high fit of poetizing. Long may it last 1 
Clarke has made a fine pathetic air to 
Mallet's superlative ballad of Willinw 
and .Mnr<^nrrf.. and is to give it me to be 
enrolled among the elect. 



MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON 

In Whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad, 
the iteration of that line is tiresome to my 
ear. Here goes what I think is an im- 
provemijnt. 

O whistle, and I'll come to ye, my lad ; 
O whistle, and I'll come to ye, my lad ; 
Tho' father and mother and a' should gae 

mad. 
Thy Jeany will venture wi' ye my lad. 

In fact, a fair dame at whose shrine, I 
the Priest of the Nine, offer up the in- 
cense of Parnassus ; a dame, whom the 
Graces have attired in witchcraft, and 
whom the loves have armed with light- 
ning, a Fair One, herself the heroine of 
the song, insists on the amendment : and 
dispute her commands if you dare I 

SONG. 

O this is no my ain lassie. 
Fair tho' the lassie be ; 

See Poems, p 103. 

Do you know that you have roused the 
torpidity of Clarke at last ? He has re- 
quested me to write three or four songs 
for him, which he is to set to music him- 
self. The enclosed sheet contains two 
songs for him, which please to present to 
my valued friend Cunningham. 

I enclose the sheet open, both for your 
inspection, and that you may copy the 
song, O honnie was yon rosy brier. I do 
not know whether I am right ; but that 
song pleases me, and as it is extremely 
probable that Clarke's newly roused ce- 
lestial spark will be soon smothered in 
the fogs of indolence, if you like the song, 
it may go as Scottish verses, to the air of 
/ wish my love was in a mire , and poor 
Erskine's English lines may follow. 

I enclose you, a For a' that and a' that, 
which was never in print; it is a much 
superior song to mine. I have been told 
that it was composed by a lady. 

Now spring has clad the grove in green, 
And strew'd the lea wi' flowers; 

Sep. Poems, p. 103. 



234 



LETTERS. 



O BONNIE was yon rosy brier 

That blooms sae far frae haunt o' man; 
See Poems, p. 104. 

Written on the blank leaf of a copy of 
the last edition of my poems, presented 
to the lady, whom, in so many fictitious 
reveries of passion, but with the most ar- 
dent sentiments of real friendship, I have 
60 often sung under the name of Chloris. 

'Tis Friendship's pledge, my young, fair 
friend. 
Nor thou the gift refuse, 

See Poems, p. 104. 



Une bazatdle de V amitie. 



CoiLA. 



No. LXXVIII. 
MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

Edinburgh, 3d Aug. 1795. 

MT DEAR SIR, 

This will be delivered to you by a 
Dr. Brianton, who has read your works, 
ana pants for the honour of your acquain- 
tance I do not know the gentleman, but 
his friend, who applied to me for this in- 
troduction, being an excellent young man, 
I have no doubt he is v/orthy of all accep- 
tation. 

My eyes have just been gladdened, and 
my mind feasted, with your last packet — 
full of pleasant things indeed. What an 
imagination is yours ! It is superfluous to 
teil you that I am delighted with all the 
thiee songs, as well as with your elegant 
and tender verses to Chloris. 

I am sorry you should be induced to al- 
ter O whistle, and I'll come to ye, my lad, 
to tlie prosaic line. Thy Jeany ivill ven- 
ture ?«j' ye my lad. I must be permitted 
to say, that I do not think the latter either 
reads or sings so well as the former. I 
wish, therefore, you would, in my name 
petition the charming Jeany whoever she 
be, to let the line remain unaltered.* 

I should be happy to see Mr. Clarke 

• The editor, who has heard the heroine of this song 
sine; ItherselCin the very spirit of arcli simplicity tliat 
It reiiuin^s, tliiiiks M. Thomson's petition nnreasona- 
*>le If we niistal<e not, this is the same lady vvlio pro- 
ud tlie lines to the tunc of Ruy's IVife, ante, p. 228. 



produce a few airs to be joined to your 
verses. Every body regrets his writing 
so very little, as every body acknowledges 
his ability to write well. Pray was the 
resolution formed cooly before dinner, or 
was it a midnight vow, made over a bowl 
of punch with the bard ? 

I shall not fail to give Mr. Cunning- 
ham what you have sent him. 

P. S. The lady's For a'' that and a' that, 
is sensible enough, but no more to be com 
pared to yours than I to Hercules. 



No. LXXIX. 

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

Forlorn, my love, no com.fort near, 
Far, far from thee, I wander here ; 

See Poems, p. 1 04. 

How do you like the foregoing ? I have 
written it within this hour : so much for 
the speed of my Pegasus, but what say 
you to his bottom ? 



No. LXXX. 

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON, 

Last May a braw wooer cam down the 
lang glen. 
And sair wi' his love did he deave me ;' 

See Poems, p. 104 



Why, why tell thy lover. 
Bliss he never must enjoy ? 

See Poems, p. 105. 

• In the original MS. the third line of the fourth verse 
runs, " He up the Gateslack to my black cousin Bess." 
Mr. Thomson objected to this word, aa well as to the 
word, Dalgarnock in the next verse. Mr. Burns re- 
plies as follows : 

" Gateslack is the name of a particular place, a kind 
of passage up among the Lawther hills, on the confines 
of this county. Dalgarnock is also the name of a ro- 
mantic spot near the Kith, where are Etill a ruined 
church and burial-ground. However, let the first run. 
He up the lang loan," &lc. 

Tt is always a pity to throw out any thing that gives 
locality to our poet's verses. E. 



LETTERS. 



235 



Such is the peculiarity of the rhythm 
of this air, that I find it impossible to make 
another stanza to suit it. 

I am at present quite occupied with the 
charming sensations of the tooth-ach, so 
have not a word to spare. 



No. LXXXI. 
MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 
3d June, 1795. 

MY DEAR SIR, 

Your English verses to Let me in 
f/as ae night, are tender and beautiful ; 
and your ballad to the " Lothian Lassie," 
is a masterpiece for its humour and nai- 
vete. The fragment for the Caledonian 
Hunt is quite suited to the original mea- 
sure of the air, and, as it plagues you so, 
the fragment must content it. I would 
rather, as I said before, have had Bac- 
chanalian words, had it so pleased the 
poet ; but, nevertheless, for what we have 
received, Lord make us thankful ! 



No. LXXXIL 
MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 
5th Feb., 1196. 

O Rohby Burns, are ye sleeping yet ? 
Or are ye wauking, I would wit? 

The pause 3'^ou have made, my dear 
Sir, is awful ! Am I never to hear from 
you again ? I know and I lament how 
much you have been afflicted of late, but 
I trust that returning health and spirits 
will now enable you to resume the pen, 
and delight us with your musings. I have 
still about a dozen Scotch and Irish airs 
that I wish " married to immortal verse." 
We have several true born Irishmen on 
the Scottish list; but they are now na- 
turalized, and reckoned our own good 
subjects. Indeed we have none better. 
I believe I before told you that I have 
been much urged by some friends to pub- 
lish a collection of all our favourite airs 
and songs in octavo, embellished with a 
nuraberofetchingsbyour ingenious friend 
Allan ; — what is your opinion of this.'' 
D d2 



No. LXXXIIL 



MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON 

February, 1796. 
Many thanks, my dear Sir, for your 

handsome elegant present, to Mrs. B , 

and for my remaining vol. of P. Pindar. — 
Peter is a delightful fellow, and a first fa- 
vourite of mine. I am much pleased with 
your idea of publishing a collection of our 
songs in octavo, with etchings, I am ex- 
tremely willing to lend every assistance 
in my power. The Irish airs I shall 
cheerfully undertake the task of finding 
verses for. 

I have already, you know, equipped 
three with words, and the other day I 
strung up a kind of rhapsody to another 
Hibernian melody, which I admire much. 

HEY FOR A LASS Wl' A TOCHER. 

AwA wi' your witchcraft o' beauty's 

alarms. 
The slender bit beauty you grasp in your 

arms ; 

See Poems, p. 105. 

If this will do, you have now four of 
my Irish engagement. In my by-past 
songs I dislike one thing ; the name of 
Chloris — ^I meant it as the fictitious name 
of a certain lady : but, on second thoughts, 
it is a high incongruity to have a Greek 
appellation to a Scottish pastoral ballad. 
— Of this, and some things else, in my 
next : I have more amendments to pro- 
pose. — What you once mentioned of 
" flaxen locks" is just ; they cannot enter 
into an elegant description of beauty. Of 
this also again — God bless you !* 



No. LXXXIV. 

MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

Your Hey for a lass wV a tocher, is a 
most excellent song, and with you the 
subject is something new indeed. It is 
the first time I have seen you debasing 
the god of soft desire, into an amateur of 
acres and guineas — 

I am happy to find you approve of my 

♦ Our Poet never explained what name lie ^ould 
have substituted for Chloris. 

J'foteby Mr. Thomson. 



f36 



LETTERS. 



proposed octavo edition. Allan has de- 
signed and etchc'l about twenty plates, 
and I am to have my choice of them for 
that work. Independently of the IIo- 
garthian humor with which they abound, 
Jiey exhibit the character and costume of 
the Scottish peasantry with inimitable feli- 
city. In this respect, he himself says they 
will far exceed the aquatinta plates lie did 
for the Gentle Shepherd, because in the 
etching he sees clearly what he is doing, 
but not so with the aquatinta, which he 
could not manage to his mind. 

The Dutch boors of Ostade are scarce- 
ly more characteristic and natural than 
the Scottish figures in those etchings. 



No. LXXXV. 

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

April, 1796. 

At.as, my dear Thomson, 1 fear it will 
be some time ere I tune my lyre again ! 
" By Babel streams I have sat and wept," 
almost ever since I wrote you last : I 
have only known existence by the pres- 
sure of the heavy hand of sickness and 
have counted time by the repercussions 
of pain ! Rheumatism, cold and fever, 
have formed to me a terrible combination. 
I close my eyes in misery, and open them 
without hope, T look on the vernal day, 
and say, with poor Fergusson — 

" Say, wherefore has an all-indulgent Heaven 
Light to the comfortless and wretched given? 

This will be delivered to you by a Mrs. 
Hyslop, landlady of the Globe Tavern 
here, which for these many years has 
been my howjf^ and wiiere our friend 
Clarke and I have had many a merry 
squeeze. I am highly delighted with Mr. 
Allan's etchings. JVoo'd and married 
an' a\ is admirable. The grouping is be- 
yond all praise. The expression of the 
figures conformable to the story in the 
ballad, is absolutely faultless perfection. 
I next admire, Turn-im-spikey What I 
like least is Jenny said to Jockey. Be- 
sides the female being in her apppear- 
ance v * * * * jf yoj, take her 
stooping into the account, she is at least 
two inciies taller than her lover. Poor 
Cleghorn: I sineerely sympatliizc with 
him! Happy I am to think that he has 



yet a well grounded hope of health and 
enjoyment in tJiis world. As for me — 
but that is a * * * * * subject ! 



No. LXXXVI 
MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS 

Alh May, 1796. 

I NEED not tell you, my good Sir, what 
concern the receipt of your last gave me, 
and liow much I sympathize in your suf 
ferings. But do not 1 beseech you, givo 
yourself up to despondency, nor speak 
the language of despair. The vigour of 
your constitution, T trust, will soon set 
you on yoi'.r feet again ; and then it is to 
be hoped you will see the wisdom and the 
necessity of taking due care of a life so 
valuable to your family, to your friends, 
and to the world. 

Trusting that your next will bring 
agreeable accounts of your convales 
cence, and returning good spirits, I re 
main, with sincere regard, yours. 

P. S. Mrs. Hyslop, I do\ibt not, deli 
vered the gold seal to you in good condi- 
tion. 



No. LXXXVH. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

MY DEAR SIR, 

I ONCE mentioned to you an air which 
I have long admired — Here's a health to 
them that's nwa, kinnie, but I forget if you 
took any notice of it. I have just been 
trying to suit it with verses; and I beg 
leave to recommend the air to your at- 
tention once more. I have only begun it. 



Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear. 
Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear ;* 

See Poems, p. 105 

* In the letter to Mr. Thomson, the three first statr- 
zas only are given, and iMr. Thomson supiioscd iMir po- 
et had never gone farther. Among liis MSS was, 
liowever, (bund the fourth stanza, which coiiiplitcsthig 
exquisite song, tlie last tinislied olispring of iiis muse 



LETTERS. 



?31 



No. LXXXVIII. 



MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

This will be deliverfjd by a Mr. Lc- 
wars, a younnf fellow of" uncommon merit. 
As he will be a day or two in town, you 
will have leisure if you choose to write 
me by him; and if you have a spare half 
hour to spend with him, I shall place 
your kindness to my account. I have no 
copies of the songs I have sent you, and 
I have taken a fancy to review them all, 
and possibly may mend some of them : so, 
when you have complete leisure, I will 
thank you for either the originals or co- 
pies.* I had rather be the author of five 
well-written songs, than often otherwise. 
I have great hopes that the genial influ- 
ence of the approaching summer will set 
me to rights, but as yet I cannot boast of 
returning health. I have now reason to 
believe that my complaint is a flying gout : 
— a sad business. 

Do let me know how Cleghorn is, and 
remember me to him. 

This should have been delivered to you 
a month ago. I am still very poorly, but 
should like much to hear from you. 



SONG. 



No. LXXXIX. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

Brow, onlheSolwa}/FrUh,'l2lhJul!/,'nOG. 

After all my boasted independence, 
cursed necessity compels me to implore 
you for five pounds. A cruel * * * * 
of a haberdasher, to whom T owe an ac- 
count, taking it into his head that I am 
dying, has commenced a process, and will 
infallibly put me into jail. Do, for God's 
sake, send me that sum, and that by re- 
turn of post. Forgive mc this earnest- 
ness, but the horrors of a jail have made 
me half distracted. I do not ask- all 
this gratuitously ; for, upon returning 
health, I hereby promise and engage to 
furnish you with five pounds' worth of 
the neatest song genius you have seen. 
I tried my hand on Rothicmurchie .this 
morning. The measure is so difficult, 
hat it is impossible to infuse much geni- 
us into the lines ; they are on the other 
side. Forgive, forgive me ! 

• It is needless to say that this revisal Burns did 
not live to perform. E. 



CHOIIUP. 

Fairest maid on Devon banlcs, 

Chrystal Devon, winding Devon,* 
See Poems, p. 106 



No. XC. 
MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS 

1 4th July, 1796. 

MY DEAR SIR, 

EvKR since I received your melan- 
choly letter by Mrs. Hyslop, I have been 
ruminating in what manner I could en- 
deavour to alleviate your sufferings. 
Again and again I thought of a pecunia- 
ry offer, but the recollection of one of 
your letters on this subject, and the fear 
of offending your independent spirit, 
checked my resolution. I thank you 
heartily therefore for the frankness of 
your letter of the 12t,h, and with great 
pleasure enclose a draft for the very sum 
I proposed sending. Would I were 
Chancellor of the Exchequer but for one 
day for your sake ! 

Pray, my good Sir, is it not possible 
for you to muster a volume of poetry? If 
too much trouble to you in the present 
state of your health, some literary friend 
might be found here, who would select 
and arrange from your manuscripts, and 
take upon him the task of Editor. In the 
mean time it could be advertised to be 
published by subscription. Do not shun 
this mode of obtaining the value of your 
labour : remember Pope published the 
Iliad by subscription. Think of this, my 
dear Burns, and do not reckon me intru- 
sive with my advice. You are too well 
convinced of the respect and friendship I 
bear you to impute any thing I say to an 
unworthy motive. Yours faitlifully. 

The verses to Rothiemurchie will an- 
swer finely. I am happy to see you can 
still tune your lyre. 

• Tliia song, End the letter enclosing It, are written 
in a character that marks the very feeble state of 
Rnrns's bodily strength. Mr. Syinc is of opinion Ihaf 
he could not have been in any danger of a jail al Dum- 
fries, where certainty he had many firm friends ; nor un- 
der any such necessity of imploring aid froniKdinburfrh. 
Hut nliout tliis time his reason began to be at times un- 
settled, and the horrors of a jail perpetually haunted 
liis imagination. He diedon tlieSlstof thismonlh £ 



2J8 



LETTERS. 



EXTRACT OP A LETTER, 

FROM GILBERT BURNS TO DR. CURRIK. 

It may t^ratify curiosity to know some par- 
ticulars of the history of the preceding 
Poems,* on tvhich the celebrity of our 
Bard has been hitlterto founded ; and 
with this view the following extract is 
made from a letter of Gilbert Burns, the 
brother of our poet, and his friend and 
conjidant from his earliest years. 



Mossgill, 2d April, 1798. 



DEAR srn, 



Your letter of the 14th of March I 
received in due course, but from the hurry 
of the season have been hitherto hindered 
from answering it. I will now try to give 
you what satisfaction I can, in regard to 
the particulars you mention. I cannot 
pretend to be very accurate in respect to 
the dates of the poems, but none of them, 
except Winter a Dirge, (which was a ju- 
venile production,) The Death and Dying 
Words cf Poor Maillie, and some of the 
songs, were composed before the year 
1704. The circumstances of the poor 
sheep were pretty much as he has de- 
scribed them. He had partly by way of 
frolic, bougiit a ewe and two lambs from 
a neighbour, and she was tethered in a 
field adjoining the liouse at Lochlie. lie 
and I were going out, with our teams, and 
our two younger brothers to drive for us, 
at mid-day; when Hugh Wilson, a curi- 
ous looking awkward boy, clad in plaid- 
ing, came to us with much anxiety m his 
face, with' the information that the ewe 
had entangled herself in the tether, and 
was lying in the ditch. Robert was much 
tickled with Huoc's appearance and pos- 
tures on the occasion. Poor Maillie was 
set to rights, and when we returned from 
the plougli in the evening, ho repeated to 
me her Death and Dying Words, pretty 
much in the way they now stand. 

Among the earliest of his poems was 
the Epistle to Davie. Robert often com- 
posed without any regular plan. When 
any thing made a strong impression on iiis 
mind, so as to rouse it to poetic exertion, 
ho would give way to the impulse, and 

• This refers to the pieces inserted before page 7G of 
Cie I'oenis. 



embody the thought in rhyme. If ho hit 
on two or three stanzas to please him, he 
would then think of proper introductory, 
connecting, and concluding stanzas ; hence 
the middle of a poem was often first pro- 
duced. It was, I think, in summer 17!I4, 
when in the interval of harder labour, he 
and I were weeding in the garden (kail- 
yard,) that he repeated to me the princi- 
pal part of this epistle. I believe the first 
idea of Robert becoming an author was 
started on this occasion. I was much 
pleased with the epistle, and said to him 
I was of opinion it would bear being print- 
ed, and that it would be well received by 
people of taste; that I thought it at least 
equal if not superior to many of Allan 
Ramsay's epistles ; and that the merit of 
these, and much other Scotch poetry, 
seemed to consist principally in the knack 
of the expression, but here, there was a 
train of interesting sentiment, and the 
Scoticismofthe language scarcely seemed 
aflected, but appeared to be the natural 
language of the poet ; that, besides, there 
was certainly some novelty in a poet point- 
ing out the consolations that were in store 
for liim when he should go a-begging. 
Robert seemed very well pleased with 
my criticism, and we talked of sending it 
to some magazine, but as this plan afford- 
ed no opportunity of knowing how it 
would take, the idea was dropped. 

It was, I think, in the winter following, 
as we were going together with carts for 
coal to the family fire (and [could yet point 
out the particular spot,) that the author 
first repeated to me the Address to thcDeih 
The curious idea of such an address wag 
suggested to him by running over in hia 
mind the many ludicrous accounts and re- 
presentations we have, from various quar- 
ters, of this august personage. Death 
and Doctor Hornbook, though not pub- 
lished in the Kilmarnock edition, was 
produced early in the year 17S5. Th" 
Schoolmaster of Tarbolton parish, to ek' 
up the scanty subsistence allowed to tha 
useful class of men,' had set up a shop o 
grocery goods. Having accidentally fall 
en in with some medical books, and be 
come most hobby-horsicnlly attached to 
the study of medicine, he had added the 
sale" of a few medicines to his little trade. 
He had got a shop-bill printed, at the bot- 
tom of which, overlooking his own inca- 
pacity, he had advertised, that Advice 
would be given in " common disorders at 
the shop gratis." Robert was at a ma- 
son meeting in Tarbolton, when the Do~ 



LETTERS. 



339 



minie unfortunately made too ostentatious 
a display of his medical skill. As he 
parted in the evening from this mixture 
of pedantry and physic, at the place where 
he describes his meeting with Death, one 
of tho«e floating ideas of apparition he 
mentions in his letter to Dr. Moore, 
crossed his mind : this set him to work 
for the rest of the way home. These cir- 
cumstances he related when he repeated 
the verses to me next afternoon, as I was 
holding the plough, and he was letting 
the W'ater off the field beside me. The 
Episllc to John Lapraik was produced 
exactly on the occasion described by the 
author. He says in that poem, On fast- 
en-e'en. Vie had a rockiri, I believe he has 
omitted the word rockins^ in the glossary. 
It is a term derived from those primitive 
times, when the countrywomen employed 
tlieir spare hours in spinning on the rack, 
or distaff. This simple implement is a 
very portable one, and well fitted to the 
social inclination of meeting in a neigh- 
bour's house; hence the phrase of g-om§' 
a-rockinsc, or with the rock. As the con- 
nexion the phrase had with the implement 
was forgotten, when the rock gave place 
to the spinning-wheel, the phrase came 
to be used by both sexes on social occa- 
sions, and men talk of going with their 
rocks as well as women. 

It was at one of these rockin^s at our 
house when we had twelve or fifteen young 
people with their rocks, that Lapraik's 
song beginning — " When I upon thy bo- 
Bom lean," was sung, and we were in- 
formed who was the author. Upon this, 
Robert wrote his first epistle to Lapraik; 
and his second in reply to his answer. 
The verses to the Mouse and Mountain 
Daisy were composed on the occasions 
mentioned, and while the author was hold- 
ing the plough ; I could point out the par- 
ticular spot where each was composed. 
Holding the plough was a favourite situ- 
ation with Robert for poetic composition, 
and some of his best verses were produced 
while he was at that exercise. Several 
of the poems were produced for the pur- 
pose of bringing forward some favourite 
sentiment of the author. He used to re- 
mark to me, that he could not well con- 
ceive a more mortifying picture of human 
life, than a man seeking work. In cast- 
ing about in his mind how this sentiment 
might be brought forward, the elegy Jl/an 
ivas made to mourn, was composed. Ro- 
bert had frequently remarked to me that 
he r.houghi. there was sometjiing peculiar- 



ly venerable in the phrase, " Let us wor- 
ship God," used by a decent, sober head 
of a family, introducing family worship. 
To this sentiment of the author the world 
is indebted for the Cotter' s Saturday Jfight, 
The hint of the plan, and title of the poem, 
were taken from Fergusson's Farmer's 
Ingie. When Robert had not some plea- 
sure in view, in which I was not thought 
fit to participate, we used frequently to 
walk together, when the weather was fa 
vourable, on the Sunday afternoons (those 
precious breathing times to the labouring 
part of the community,) and enjoyed such 
Sundays as would make one regret to see 
their number abridged. It was in one of 
these walks, that I first had the pleasure 
of hearing the author repeat the Cotter's 
Saturday .N'ight. I do not recollect to 
have heard or read any thing by which I 
was more highly electrified. The fifth and 
sixth stanzas, and the eighteenth, thrilled 
with peculiar ecstacy through my soul. 
I mention this to you, that you may see 
what hit the taste of unlettered criticism. 
I should be glad to know if the enlighten- 
ed mind and refined taste of Mr. Roscoe, 
who has borne such honourable testimony 
to this poem, agrees with me in the selec- 
tion. Fergusson, in his Hallow Fair of 
Edinburgh, I believe, likewise furnished 
a hint of the title and plan of the Holy- 
Fair. The farcical scene the poet there 
describes was often a favourite field of his 
observation, and the most of the incidents 
he mentions had actually passed before 
his eyes. It is scarcely necessary to men- 
tion that the Lament was composed on 
that unfortunate passage in his matrimo- 
nial history, which I have mentioned in 
my letter to Mrs. Dunlop, after the first 
distraction of his feelings had a little sub- 
sided. The Tale of Twa Dogs was com- 
posed after -the resolution of publishing 
was nearly taken. Robert had had a dog, 
which he called Luath, that was a great 
favourite. The dog had been killed by 
the wanton cruelty of some person the 
night before my father's death. Robert 
said to me, that he should like to confer 
such immortality as he could bestow upon 
his old friend Luath, and that he had a 
great mind to introduce something into 
the book, under the title of Stanzas to the 
Memory of a quadruped Friend; but this 
plan was given up for the Tale as it now 
stands. Cnsar was merely the creature 
of the poet's imagination, created for the 
purpose of holding chat with his favourite 
Lv.atk. The first time Robert heard the 
si)innet played upon, was at the house of 



740 



LETTERS. 



Dr. Lawrie, then minister of the parish of 
Loudon, now in Glasgow, having- given 
up the parish in favour of his son. Dr. 
Lawrie has several daughters : one of 
them played; the father and mother led 
down the dance; the rest of the sisters, 
the brother, the poet, and the other 
guests, mixed in it. It was a delightful 
family scene for our poet, then lately in- 
troduced to the world. His mind was 
roused to a poetic enthusiasm, and the 
stanzas/). 44. of the Poems, were left in 
the room where he slept. It was to 
Dr. Lawrie that Dr. Blacklock's letter 
was addressed, which my brother, in his 
letter to Dr. Moore, mentions as the rea- 
Bon of his going to Edinburgh. 

When my father/euefZ his little proper- 
ty near Alloway-Kirk, the wall -of the 
church-yard had gone to ruin, and cattle 
had free liberty of pasturing in it. My 
father, with two or three other neigh- 
bours, joined in an application to the 
town council of Ayr, who were superiors 
of the adjoining land, for liberty to re- 
build it, and raised by subscription a sum 
for enclosing this ancient cemetery with 
a wall ; hence he came to consider it as 
his burial-place, and we learned that re- 
verence for it people generally have for 
the burial-place of their ancestors. My 
brother was living in Ellisland, when 
Captain Grose, on his peregrinations 
through Scotland, staid some time at 
Carsehouse, in the neighbourhood, with 
Captain Robert Riddel, of Glen-Riddel, 
a particular friend of my brother's. The 
Antiquarian and the poet were " Unco 
pack and thick thegither." Robert re- 
quested of Captain Grose, when he should 
come to Ayrshire, that he would make a 
drawing of Alloway-Kirk, as it was the 
burial-place of his father, and where he 
himself had a sort of claim to lay down 
his bones when they should be no longer 
serviceable to him ; and added by way of 
encouragement, that it was the scene of 
many a good story of witches and appari- 
tions, of which he knew the Captain was 
very fond. The Captain agreed to the 
request, provided the poet would furnish 
a witch-story, to be printed along with it. 
Tarn o' Shanter was produced on this oc- 
casion, and was first published in Grose's 
Antiquities of Scotland, 

The poem is founded on a traditional 
story The leading circumstances of a 
man nding home very late from Ayr, in 
a stormy night, his seeing a light in Al- 



loway-Kirk, his having the curiosity to 
look in, his seeing a dance of witches, 
with the devil playing on the bagpipe to 
them, the scanty covering of one of the 
witches, which made him so far forget 
himself, as to cry IFeel loupen, short 
sark .' — with the melancholy catastrophe 
of the piece is all a true story, that can 
be well attested by many respectable old 
people in that neighbourhood. 

I do not at present recollect any cir- 
cumstances respecting the other poems, 
that could be at all interesting ; evec 
some of those I have mentioned, I ant 
afraid, may appear trifling enough, but 
you will only make use of what appears 
to you of consequence. 

The following Poems in the first Edin- 
burgh edition, were not in that published 
in Kilmarnock. Death and Dr. Horn- 
book ; the B rigs of Ayr ; the Caf; (tha 
poet had been with Mr. Gavin Hamilton 
in the morning, who said jocularly to him 
when he was going to church, in allusion 
to the injunction of some parents to their 
children, that he must be sure to bring 
him a note of the sermon at mid-day : 
this address to the Reverend Gentleman 
on his text was accordingly produced.) 
The Ordination ; The Address to the Unro 
Guid ; Tarn Samson's Eleu^y ; A Winter 
Jfight ; Stanzas on the same Occasion as 
the preceding Prayer ; Verses left at a 
Reverend Friend's House ; The First 
Psalm; Prayer under the Pressure ofvi- 
olent Anguish; the First Six Verses of 
the JSTinefieth Psalm; Verses to J\Iiss 
Logan, loith Beattie's Poems ; To a Hag- 
gis ; Address to Edinburgh ; John Bar- 
ley corn ; When Guilford Guid; Behind 
yon hills where Stinchar fiows ; Green 
grow the Rashes ; Again rejoicing J^ature 
sees ; The gloomy JVight ; JVb Churchman 
I am. 

If you have never seen the first edition, 
it will, perhaps, not be amiss to transcribe 
the preface, that you may see the man- 
ner in which the Poet made his first awe- 
struck approach to the bar of public judg- 
ment. 

[Here followed the Preface as given in 
the first page of the Poems. 

I am, dear Sir, 
Your most obedient humble Servant, 
GILBERT BURNS 
DR. cuRRiE, Liverpool. 



LETTERS. 



9M 



To this history of the poems which are 
contained in this vohime, it may be added, 
that onr aiithi)r appears to have made Ht- 
tle alteration in tiiein after their original 
comi)osition, except in some few instan- 
ces where considerable additions have 
been introduced. After he had attracted 
the notice of tlie public by his first edi- 
tion, various criticisms were offered him 
on the peculiarities of his style, as well as 
of his sentiments; and some of these, 
which remain among his manuscripts, are 
by persons of great taste and judgment. 
Some few of these criticisms he adopted, 
but the far greater part he rejected ; and, 
though something has by this means been 
lost in point of delicacy and correctness, 
yet a deeper impression is left of the 
Ftrength and originality of his genius.' 
The firmness of our poet's character, 
arising from a just confidence in his ovvn 
powers, may, in part, explain his tena- 
ciousness of his peculiar expressions ; but 
it may be in some degree accounted for 
also, by the circumstances under which 
the poems were composed. Burns did 
not, like men of genius born under hap- 
pier auspices, retire, in the moment of in- 
spiration, to the silence and solitude of 
his study, and commit his verses to paper 
as they arranged themselves in his mind. 
Fortune did not afford him this indulgence. 
It was during the toils of daily labour 
that his fincy exerted itself; the muse, 
as he himself informs us, found him at the 
plough. In this situation, it was neces- 
sary to fix his verses on his memory, and 
it was often many days, nay weeks, after 
a poem was finished, before it was writ- 
ten down. During all this time, by fre- 
quent repetition, the association between 
the thought and the expression was con- 
firmed, and the impartiality of taste with 
which written language is reviewed and 
retouched after it has faded on the me- 
mory, could not in such instances be 
exerted. The original manuscripts of 
many of iiis poems are preserved, and 
they difi'er in nothing material from the 
last printed edition. — Some few varia- 
tions may be noticed. 

1. In The Author's earnest Cry and 
Prayer after the stanza beginning, 

F.rskine, a spunkie, JVorliind liillie, 

there appears, in his book of maiuiscripts, 
tKfl following : 

Tlipp, Snilaer Hugli, my watchman stenied, 
If jJardics e'er aie represented ; 



I ken if that your sword wore wanted 
iTe'd lend your liand ; 

But whi'n there's ought to s<iy aiient it, 
Ye're at a stand. 

Sodger Hugh, is evidently the present 
Earl of Eglintoun, then Colonel Montgo- 
mery of Coilsfield, and representing in 
parliament the county of Ayr. Why this 
was left out in printing does not appear. 
The noble earl will not be sorry to see 
this notice of him, familiar though it be, 
by a bard whose genius he admired, and 
whose fate he lamented. 

2. In The Address to the Deil, the se- 
cond stanza ran originally thus : 

Lang syne in Eden'a happy scene, 
When strappin Adam's da^s was green, 
And Eve was hkr my honnic Jean, 

My dearest [lart, 
A dancin, sweet, young, handsome quean, 

Wi' guiltless lieart. 

3. In The Elegy on poor J)IaiUie, the 
stanza beginning, 

She was nae get o' moorland tips^ 

was, at first, as follows : 

She was na get o' runted rams, 

Wr woo' like goats, and legs like trams ; 

She was the (lower o' Fairlce lamhs, 

A famous breed ; 
Now Kobin, greetin, chows the hams 
O' Maillie dead. 

It were a pity that the Fairlee lambs 
should lose the honor once intended them. 

4. But the chief variations are fotmd 
in the poems introduced for the first time, 
in the edition of two volumes, small octavo, 
published in 1792. Of the \)ocm written in 
Frinr's-Carse JTermitas;c, there are seve- 
ral editions, and one of these has nothing 
in common with the printed poein but the 
first four lines. The poem that is pub- 
lished, whicii was his second effort on tbo 
subject, received considerable alterations 
in printing. 

Instead of the six lines beginning, 

SaTf, man's true, genuine estimate, 

in manuscript the following are inserted : 

Say, the criterion of their fate, 
Tir important (picry of their state. 
Is not, art thou high or !ow1 
Did tlry fortune ebb or flow? 



242 



LETTERS. 



Wert thou cottager or king * 
Prince or peasant 1 — no such thing. 



5. The Epistle to R. G. Esq. of F. 
that is, to R. Graham, Esq. of Fintra, 
also urderwent considerable alterations, 
as may be collected from the General 
Correspondence. The style of poetry 
was new to our poet, and, though he was 
fitted to excel in it, it cost him more 
trouble than his Scottish poetry. On 
the contrary, Tarn o' Shanter seems to 
have issued perfect from the author's 
brain. The only considerable alteration 
made on reflection, is the omission of four 
lines, which had been inserted after the 
poem was finished, at the end of the 
dreadful catalogue of the articles found 
on the " haly table," and which appeared 
in the first edition of the poem, printed 
separately — They came after the line, 

Which even to name would he unlawfu', 

and are as follows, 

Three lawyers' tongues turn'd inside out, 
Wi' llesseam'd like a beggar's clout, 
And priests' heart, rotten, black as muck, 
Lay, stinking vile, in every neuk. 

These lines which, independent of other 
objections, interrupt and destroy the emo- 
tions of terror which the preceding de- 
scription had excited, were very properly 
left out of the printed collection, by the 
advice of Mr, Fraser Tytler ; to which 
Burns seems to have paid much defe- 
rence.* 

6. The Address to the shade of Thom- 
son, began in the first manuscript copy in 
the following manner : 

While cold-eye'd Spring, a virgin coy, 

Unfolds her verdant mantle sweet; 
Or pranks the sod in frolic joy, 

A carpet for her youthful feet; 
While Summer, with a matron's grace, 

Walks stately in the cooling shade ; 
And, oft delighted, loves to trace 

The progress of the spiky blade ; 
While Autumn, benefactor kind, 

With age's hoary honours clad. 
Surveys with self-approving mind, 

Each creature on hia bounty fed, fcc. 



• These four lines have been inadvertently replaced 
in the copy of Tarn o' Shavter, published in the first 
volume of the " Poetry, Original and Selected," of 
Brash and Reid, of Glasgow; and to this circumstance 
is owing their being noticed here- As our poet delibe- 
rately rejected them, it is hojicd that no future printer 
will insert them 



By the alteration in the printed poem, it 
may be questioned whether the poetry is 
much improved ; the poet however has 
found means to introduce the shades of 
Dryburgh, the residence of the Earl of 
Buchan, at whose request these versea 
were written. 

These observations might be extended, 
but what are already oifered will satisfy 
curiosity, and there is nothing of any im- 
portance that could be added. 



THE FOLLOWING LETTER 

Of Burns, which contains some hints rela- 
tive to the oriffin of his celebrated tale of 
',' Tarn o' Shanter," the Publishers trust, 
will be found interesting to every reader 
of his works. There appears no reason 
to doubt of its being genuine, though it 
has not been inserted in his correspon- 
dence published by Dr. Currie. 



TO FRANCIS GROSE, ESQ. F. A. S.'' 

Among the many witch stories I have 
heard relatingto Alloway kirk, I distinctly 
remember only two or three. 

Upon a stormy night, amid whistling 
squalls of wind, and bitter blasts of hail ; 
in short on such a night as tlie devil would 
chuse to take the air in ; a farmer or far- 
mer's servant was plodding and plashing 
homeward with his plough-irons on his 
shoulder, having been getting some re- 
pairs on them at a neighbouring smithy. 
His way lay by the kirk of Alloway, and 
being rather on the anxious look out in 
approaching a place so well known to oe 

* TliisLetter was first published in the Cc7!s?/ra lA- 
(crarzffl, 1786, and was communicated to the Editor of 
that work by Mr. Gilchrist of Stamford, accompanied 
with the following remark. 

"In a collection of miscellaneous papers of the .Anti- 
quary Grose, which I purchased a few years since, I 
found the following letter written to him by Burns,when 
the former was collecting the Antiquities of Scotland: 
When I premise it was on the second tradition that ho 
afterwards formed the inimitable tale of ' Taui o' Shan- 
ter,' 1 cannot doubt of it.-, being read with great interest. 
It were ' buniiii!r day Ml'Iu' to point out toa reader (and 
wbo is not a reader of Burns 7) the tlioufihls ho after- 
wards transplanted into the rhythmical narrative. 

O. G 



LETTERS. 



243 



a favourite haunt of the devil and the de- 
vil's friends and emissaries, he was struck 
agfliast by discovering throiigli the horrors 
of tlie storm and stormy night, a Hght, 
which on his nearer approach plainly 
showed itself to proceed from the haunted 
edifice. Whether he had been fortified 
from above on his devout supplication, as 
is customary with people when they sus- 
pect the immediate presence of Satan, or 
whether, according to another custom, he 
had got courageously drunk at the smithy, 
I will not pretend to determine ; but so it 
was that he ventured to go up to, nay into 
tlie very kirk. As good luck would have 
it his temerity came ofl" unpunished. 

The members of the infernal junto were 
all out on some midnight business or other, 
and he saw nothing but a kind of kettle or 
caldron depending from the roof, over the 
fire, simmering some heads of unchristen- 
ed children, limbs of executed malefac- 
tors, &c. for the business of the night. — 
It was in for a penny, in for a pound, with 
the honest ploughman : so without cere- 
mony he unhooked the caldron from off 
the fire, and pouring out the damnable in- 
gredients, inverted it on his head, and 
carried it fairly home, where it remained 
long in the family, a living evidence of 
the truth of the story. 

Another story which I can prove to be 
equally authentic, was as follows: 

On a market day in the town of Ayr, a 
farmer from Carrick, and consequently 
whose way laid by the very gate of Allo- 
way kirk-yard, in order to cross the river 
Doon at the old bridge, which is about 
two or three hundred yards farther on 
than the said gate, had been detained by 
his business, till by the time he reached 
Alloway it was the wizard hour, between 
night and morning. 

Though he was terrified with a blaze 
streaming from the kirk, yet as itns a well- 
known fact tliat to turn back on these oc- 
casions is running by far the greatest risk 
of mischief, he prudently advanced on his 
road. When he had reached the gate of 
the kirk-yard, he was surprised and en- 
tertained, through the ribs and arches of 
an old Gothic window, which still faces 
the highway, to see a dance of witches 
merrily footing it round their old sooty 
blackguard master, who was keeping them 
E e 



all alive with the power of his bagpipe. 
The farmer stopping his horse to observe 
them a little, could plainly descry the 
faces of many old women of his acquain- 
tance and neighbourhood. How the gen- 
tlemen was dressed, tradition does not say ; 
but the ladies were all in their smocks : 
and one of them happening unluckily to 
have a smock which was considerably too 
short to answer all the purposes of that 
piece of dress, our farmer was so tickled, 
that he involuntarily burst out, with a 
loud laugh, " Weel luppen, Maggy wi' 
the short sark !" and recollecting himself, 
instantly spurred his horse to the top of 
his speed. I need not mention the uni- 
versally known fact, that no diabolical 
power can pursue you beyond the middle 
of a running stream. Lucky it was for 
the poor farmer that the river Doon was 
so near, for notwithstanding the speed of 
his horse, which was a good one, against 
he reached the middle of the arch of the 
bridge, and consequently the middle of 
the stream, the pursuing vengeful hags, 
were so close at his heels, that one of 
them actually sprung to seize him ; but it 
was too late, nothing was on her side of 
the stream but the horse's tail, which im- 
mediately gave way at her infernal grip, 
as if blasted by a stroke of lightning ; but 
the farmer was beyond her reach. How- 
ever, the unsightly, tailless condition of 
the vigorous steed was, to the last hour of 
the noble creature's life, an awful warn- 
ing to the Carrick farmers, not to stay 
too late in Ayr markets. 



The last relation I shall give, though 
equally true, is not so well identified, as 
the two former, with regard to the scene; 
but as the best authorities give it for Al- 
loway, I shall relate it. 



On a summer's evening, about the time 
that nature puts on her sables to mourn 
the expiry of the cheerful day, a shepherd 
boy belonging to a farmer in the imme- 
diate neighbourhoodof Alloway kirk, had 
just folded his charge, and was returning 
home. As he passed the kirk, in the ad- 
joining field, he fell in with a crew of men 
and women who were busy pulling stems 
of the plant Ragwort. He observed that 
as each person pulled a Ragwort, he or 
she got astride of it, and called out, " up 
horsie !" on which the Ragwort flew off 
like Pegasus, through the air with its ri- 



244 



LETTERS. 



der. The foolish boy likewise pulled his 
Ragwort, and cried with the rest " up 
horsie !" and, strange to tell, away he flew 
with the company. The first stage at 
which the cavalcade stopped was a mejr- 
chant's wine cellar in Bourdeaux, where, 
without saying by your leave, they quaffed 
away at the best the cellar could afford, 
until the morning, foe to the imps and 
works of darkness, threatened to throw 
light on the matter, and frightened them 
from their carousads. 



The poor shepherd lad, being equally 
a stranger to the scene and the liquor, 
heedlessly got himself drunk ; and when 
the rest took horse, he fell asleep, and 
was found so next day by some of tho 
people belonging to the merchant. Some- 
body that understood Scotch, asking him 
what he was, he said he was such-a-one's 
herd in Alloway, and by some means or 
other gettii'g home again, he lived long 
to tell the world the wondrous tale. 

I am, &c. &c 



a: 



No. l.—J^ute A. See Life, p. 2. ' 

The importance of the national estab- 
lishment of parish-schools in Scotland will 
justify a short account of the legislative 
provisions respecting it, especially as the 
Eubjeci has escaped the notice of all the 
historians. 

By an act of the king (James Vlth) 
and privy council of the 10th of Decem- 
ber, 1616, it was recommiended to his 
bishops to (hale and travel with the heri- 
tors (land proprietors,) and the inhabitants 
of the respective parishes in their respec- 
tive dioceses, towards the fixing upon 
" some certain, solid, and sure course" 
for settling and entertaining a school in 
each parish. This was ratified by a sta- 
tute of Charles I. (the act 1633, chap. 5.) 
which empowered the bishop, with the 
consent of the heritors of a parish, or of 
a majority of the inhabitants, if the heri- 
tors refused to attend the meeting, to as- 
sess every plough of land (that is, every 
farm, in proportion to the number of 
ploughs upon it) with a certain sum for 
establishing a school. This was an inef- 
fectual provision, as depending on the 
consent and pleasure of the heritors and 
inhabitants. Tlierefore a new order of 
things was introduced by Stat. 1 646, chap. 
17, which ohligfs the heritors and minis- 
ter of each parish to meet and assess the 
several heritors with the requisite sum for 
building a schoolhouse, and to elect a 
school-master, and modify a salary for him 
in all time to come. The salary is order- 
ed not to be under one hundred, nor above 
two hundred merks, that is, in onr pre- 
Bnnt sterling money, not under £5 lis. 
l^^d. nor above £11 2s. 3d. and the as- 
sessment is to be laid on the land m the 



same proportion as it is rated for the 
support of the clergy, and as it regulates 
the payment of the land-tax. But in case 
the heritors of any parish, or the ma- 
jority of them, should fail to discharge 
this duty, then the persons forming what 
is called the Commiltee of Supply of the 
county ^consisting of the principal land- 
holders,) or any jive of them, are autho- 
rized by the statute to impose the assess- 
ment instead of them, on the representa- 
tion of the presbytery in which the parish 
is situated. To secure the choice of a 
proper teacher, the right of election by 
the heritors, by a statute passed in 1693, 
chap. 22, is made subject to the review and 
control of the presbytery of the district, 
who have the examination of the person 
proposed committed to them, both as to his 
qualifications as a teacher, and as to hia 
proper deportment in the office when set- 
tled in it. The election of the heritors 
is therefore only a presentment of a per- 
son for the approbation of the presbyte- 
ry ; who, if they find him unfit, may de- 
clare his incapacity, and thus oblige them 
to elect anew. So far is stated on un- 
questionable authority.* 

The legal salary of the schoolmaster 
was not inconsiderable at the time it was 
fixed ; but by the decrease in the value of 
money, it is now certainly inadequate to 
its object; and it is painful to observe, 
that the landholders of Scotland resisted 
the humble application of the schoolmas- 
ters to the legislature for its increase, a 
few years ago. The number of parishes 
in Scotland is 877 ; and if we allow the 
salary of a schoolmaster in each to be on 

♦ The authority of A. Fiazer Tytler, and DaviJ 
Hume, Esqrs. 



246 



APPENDIX, NO. 1. 



an average, seven pounds sterling, the 
amount of the legal provision will he 
£6, 139 sterling. If we suppose the wa- 
ges paid by the scholars to amount to 
twice the sum, which is probably beyond 
the truth, the total of the expenses 
among 1,526,492 persons (the whole po- 
pulation of Scotland,) of this most im- 
portant establishment, will be £18, 417. 
But on this, as well as on other subjects re- 
specting Scotland, accurate information 
may soon be expected from Sir John 
Sinclair's Analysis of his Statistics, which 
will complete the immortal monument he 
has reared to his patriotism. 

The benefit arising in Scotland from 
the instruction of the poor, was soon felt ; 
and by an act of the British parliament, 
4 Geo. I. chap. 6, it is enacted, " that of 
the moneys arising from the sale of the 
Scottish estates forfeited in the rebellion 
of 1715, £2,000 sterling shall be convert- 
ed into a capital stock, the interest of 
which shall be laid out in erecting and 
maintaining schools in the Highlands. 
The Society for propagating Christian 
Knowledge, incorporated in 1709, have 
applied a large part of their fund for the 
same purpose. By their report, 1st May, 
1795, the annual sum employed by them, 
in supporting their schools in the High- 
lands and Islands, was £3,913 19s. lOd., 
in which are taught the English language, 
reading and writing, and the principles of 
religion. The schools of the society are 
additional to the legal schools, which 
from the great extent of many of the 
Highland parishes, were found insuffi- 
cient. Besides these established schools, 
the lower classes of people in Scotland, 
where the parishes are large, often com- 
bine together,and establish private schools 
of their own, at one of which it was that 
Burns received the principal part of his 
education. So convinced indeed are the 
poor people of Scotland, by experience, 
of the benefit of instruction, to their chil- 
dren, that, though they may often find it 
diflScult to feed and clothe them, some 
kind of school-instruction they almost al- 
ways procure them. 

'The influence of the school-ostablish- 
rncnt of Scotland on the peasantry of that 
country, seems to have decided by expe- 
rience a question of legislation of the ut- 
most importance — whether a system of 
national instruction for the poor be fa- 
vourable to morals and good government. 
In the year 1698, Fletcher of Salton de- 



clared as follows : " There arc at this day 
in Scotland, two hundred tUousand people 
begging from door to door. And though 
the number of them be perhaps double to 
what it was formerly, by reason of this 
present great distress (a famine then pre- 
vailed,) yet in all times there have been 
about one hundred thousand of those va- 
gabonds, who have lived without any re- 
gard or subjection either to the laws ot 
the land, or even those of God and Na- 
ture ; fathers incestuously accompanying 
with their own daughters, the son with 
the mother, and the brother with the sis- 
ter." He goes on to say; that no magis- 
trate ever could discover that they had 
ever been baptized, or in what way one 
in a hundred went out of the world. He 
accuses them as frequently guilty of rob- 
bery, and sometimes of murder: " In 
years of plenty," says he, " many thou- 
sands of men meet together in the moun- 
tains, where they feast and riot for many 
days ; and at country weddings, markets 
burinis, and other public occasions, they 
are to be seen, both men and women, 
perpetually drunk, cursing, blaspheming, 
and fighting together."* This high- 
minded statesman, of whom it is said by 
a contemporary " that he would lose his 
life readily to save his country, and would 
notdo abase thingto serveit," thought the 
evil so great that he proposed as a reme- 
dy, the revival of domestic slavery, ac- 
cording to the practice of his adored re- 
publics in the classic ages I A better re- 
medy has been found, which in the silent 
lapse of a century has proved effectual- 
The statute of 1696, the noble legacy ot 
the Scottish Parliament to their country, 
began soon after this to operate ; and 
happily, as the minds of the poor received 
instruction, the Union opened new chan- 
nels of industry, and new fields of action 
to their view. 

At the present day there is perhaps ne 
country in Europe, in which, in propor- 
tion to its population, so small a number 
of crimes fall under the chastisement ol 
the criminal law, as Scotland. We have 
the best authority for asserting, that on 
an average of thirty years, preceding the 
year 1797, the executions in that division 
of the island did not amount to six annu- 
ally ; and one quarter-sessions for the 
town of Manchester only, has sent, ac- 
cording to Mr. Hume, more felons to the 
plantations, than all the judges of Scot- 

* Political Works of Andrew Fletcher, octavo, Lou- 

doa 



APPENDIX, NO. 1. 



land usually do in the space of a )'ear.* 
It might appear invidious to attempt a cal- 
culation oi" the many thousand individu- 
als in Manchester and its vicinity who 
can neither read nor write. A majority 
of those who can suffer the punishment of 
death for their crimes in every part of 
England are, it is believed, in this mise- 
rable state of ignorance. 

There is now a legal provision for pa- 
rochial schools, or rather for a school in 
each of the different townships into which 
the country is divided, in several of the 
northern states of North America. They 
are, however, of recent origin there, ex- 
cepting in New England, where they 
were established in the last century, pro- 
bably about the same time as in Scotland, 
and by the same religious sect. In the 
Protestant Cantons of Switzerland, the 
peasantry have the advantage of similar 
schools, though established and endowed 
in a different manner. This is also the 
case in certain districts in England, par- 
ticularly, in the northern parts of York- 
shire and of Lancashire, and in the coun- 
ties of Westmoreland and Cumberland. 

A law, providing for the instruction of 
the poor, was passed by t'le Parliament 
of Ireland ; but the fand was diverted 
from its purpose, and the measure was 
entirely frustrated. Proh I'udor ! 

The similarity of chariicter between 
the Swiss and the Scotch, and between 
the Scotch and the people of New Eng- 
land, can scarcely be overlooked. That 
it arises in a great measure from the si- 
milarity of their institutions for instruc- 
tion, cannot be questioned. It is no doubt 
increased by physical causes. With a 
superior degree of instruction, each of 
these nations possesses a country that 
may be said to be sterile, in the neigh- 
bourhood of countries comparatively rich. 
Hence emigrations and the other effects 
on conduct and character which such cir- 
cumstances naturally produce. This sub- 
ject is in a high degree curious. The 
points of dissimilarity between these na- 
tions might be traced to their causes also, 
nnd the whole investigation would per- 
haps admit of an approach to certainty in 
OUT conclusions, to which such inquiries 
seldom lead. How much superior in mo- 
rals, in intellect, and in happiness, the 

• Hump's Commentaries on tlie Laws of Scotland, 
Introduction, p. 50. 



247 

peasantry of those parts of England are 
who have opportunities of instruction, to 
the same class in other situations, those 
who inquire into the subject will speedily 
discover. The peasantry of Westmore- 
land, and of the other districts mentioned 
above, if their physical and moral quali- 
ties be taken together, are, in the opinion 
of the Editor, superior to the peasantry 
of any part of the island. 

JVbfe B. See p. 3. 

It has been supposed that Scotland is 
less populous and less improved on ac- 
count of this emigration ; but such con- 
clusions are doubtful, if not wholly falla- 
cious. The principle of population acts 
in no country to the full extent of its pow- 
er : marriage is every where retarded be- 
yond the period pointed out by nature, 
by the difficulty of supporting a family ; 
and this obstacle is greatest in long-set- 
tled communities. The emigration of a 
part of a people facilitates the marriage 
of the rest, by producing a relative in- 
crease in the means of subsistence. The 
arguments of Adam Smith, for a free*ex- 
port of corn, are perhaps applicable with 
less exception to the free export of peo- 
ple. The more certain the vent, the 
greater the cultivation of the soil. This 
subject has been well investigated by Sir 
James Stewart, whose principles have 
been expanded and farther illustrated in 
a late truly philosophical Essay on Popu- 
lation. In fact, Scotland has increased 
in the number of its inhabitants in the 
last forty years, as the Statistics of Sir 
John Sinclair clearly prove, but not in the 
ratio that some had supposed. The ex- 
tent of the emigration of the Scots may 
be calculated with some degree of confi- 
dence from the proportionate number of 
the two sexes in Scotland ; a point that 
may be established pretty exactly by an 
examination of the invaluable Statistics 
already mentioned. If we suppose that 
there is an equal number of male and fe- 
male natives of Scotland, alive somewhere 
or other, the excess by which the females 
exceed the ttiales in their own country, 
may be considered to be equal to the 
number of Scotchmen living out of Scot- 
land. But though the males born in 
Scotland be admitted to be as 13 to 12, 
and though some of the females emigrate 
as well as the males, this mode of calcu- 
lating would probably make the number 
of expatriated Scotchmen, at any onetime 



24S 

alive, greater than the truth. The un- 
healthy climates into which they emi- 
grate, the hazardous services in which so 
many of them engage, render the mean 
life of those who leave Scotland (to speak 
in the language of calculators) not per- 
haps of half the value of the mean life of 
those who remain. 

JVofe C. See p. 6. 

In tlie punishment of this offence the 
Church employed formerly the arm of the 
civil power. During the reigh of James 
the Vlth (James the First of England,) cri- 
minal connexion between unmarried per- 
sons was made the subject of a particular 
statute {See Hume's Commentaries on the 
Laws of Scotland, Vol. ii. jj. 332.) which, 
from its rigour, was never much enforced, 
and which has long fallen into disuse. 
When in the middle of the last century, 
the Puritans succeeded in the overthrow 
of the monarchy in both divisions of the 
island, fornication was a crime against 
which they directed their utmost zeal. 
It was made punishable with death in the 
seqond instance, (See Blackstonc, b. iv. 
chap. 4. JVo.ll.) Happily this sanguina- 
ry statute was swept away along with the 
other acts of the Commonwealth, on the 
restoration of Charles II. to whose tem- 
per and manners it must have been pecu- 
liarly abhorrent. And after the Revolu- 
tion, when several salutary acts passed 
during the suspension of the monarchy, 
were re-enacted by the Scottish Parlia- 
ment, particularly that for the establish- 
ment of parish-schools, the statute pun- 
ishing fornication with death, was suffer- 
ed to sleep in the grave of the stern fana- 
tics who had given it birth. 

JS'ote D. See p. 6. 

The legitimation of children, by subse- 
quent marriage became the Roman law 
under the Christian emperors. It was 
the cannon law of modern Europe, and 
has been established in Scotland from a 
very remote period. Thus a child born a 
bastard, if his parents afterwards marry, 
enjoys all the privileges of seniority over 
his brothers afterwards born in wedlock. 
In the Parliament of iMerton, in the reign 
of Henry III. the English clergy made a 
vigorous attempt to introduce this article J 
into the law of England, and it was on I 
this occasion that the Barons made the 1 
noted answer, since so often appealed to; I 
Quod nnlunt le,i;es Anglice mutare ; quce I 



APPENDIX, NO. 2. 



hue usque usitatce sunt approbatce. W ith 
regard to what constitutes a marriage, 
the law of Scotland, as explained, p. 6, 
differs from the Roman law, which re- 
quired the ceremony to be performed jji 
facie ecclesice. 



No. II. 



J^ote A. Seep. 12. 

It may interest some persons to peruse 
the first poetical production of our Bard, 
and it is therefore extracted from a kind 
of common place book, which he seems 
to have begun in his twentieth year ; and 
which he entitled, " Observations, Hints, 
Songs, Scraps of Poetnj, Sfc. by Robert 
Biirness, a man who had little art in 
making money, and still less in keeping 
it ; but was, however, a man of some 
sense, a great deal of honesty, and un- 
bounded good will to every creature, ra- 
tional or irrational. As he was but little 
indebted to a scholastic education, and 
bred at a plough-tail, his performances 
must be strongly tinctured with his unpol 
ished rustic way of life; but as, I believe 
they are really his own, it may be some 
entertainment to a curious observer ot 
human nature, to see how a ploughman 
thinks and feels, under the pressure ot 
love, ambition, anxiety, grief, with the 
like cares and passions, which however 
diversified by the modes and manners ot 
life, operate pretty much alike, I believe, 
in all the species." 

" Pleasing when youth is long expired to trace, 
The forms our pencil or our pen design'd, 

Such was our youthful air, and shape, and face, 
Such the soft image of the youthful mind." 

Shenstone 

This MS. book, to which our poet pre- 
fixed this account of himself, and of his 
intention in preparing it, contains several 
of his earlier poems, some as they were 
primed, and others in their embryo state. 
Th* song alluded to is that beginning, 

O once I lov'd abonnie_ lass, 
Ay, and I love her still, 

See Poems, p. 79. 

*t must be confessed that this song 
.«r'~es no indication of the future genius 
o* tJurns ; but he himself seems to have 
bf>*n fond of it, orobably from the recoi- 
le«'-»on3 it excited. 



APPENDIX, NO. 2. 



JVofeB. Seep. 15. 

At the time that our poet took the re- 
Bolution of becoming wise, he procured a 
little book of blank paper, with the pur- 
pose (expressed on the first page) of ma- 
king farming memorandums upon it. 
These farming memorandums are curious 
enough ; many of them have been writ- 
ten with a pencil, and are now oblite- 
rated, or at least illegible. A considera- 
ble number are however legible, and a 
specimen may gratify the reader. It 
must be premised, that the poet kept 
iho, book by him several years — that he 
•wrote upon it, here and there, with the 
utmost irregularity, and that on the same 
page are notations very distant from each 
other as to time and place. 



EXTEMPORE, .^pril, 1782. 

O why the deuce should I repine, 
And be an ill foreboder ; 

See Poems, p. 163. 



FRAGMENT. Tune—' Donald Blue.' 

O leave novels, ye Mauchliiie belles, 
Ye'rc safer at your spinning wheel ; 

See Poems, p. 151. 



For he's far aboon Dunkel the night 
Maun white the stick and a' that. 

JHem. To get for Mr. Johnson these 
two Songs : — ' Molly, JSIolly, my dear 
honey.' — ' The cock and the hen, the deer 
in her den,' SfC. 



Ah! Clo-^is! Sir Peter Halket, of Pit- 
ferran, the author. — .Kola, he married 
her — the heiress of Pitferran. 

Colonel George Crawford, the author 
of Dovm the burn Davy. 

Pinky-house, by J. Mitchell. 

J)Ii/ apron Deary ! and Amynta, by 
Sir G. Elliot. 

Willie was a wanton Wag, was made 
on Walkinshaw, of Walkinshaw, near 
Paisley. 

/ he na a laddie hzd anr, Mr. Clunzee. 

The honnie wee thing — beautiful — Lun- 
iie's Dream — very beautiful. 

He iitl't and she liU't — assez bien. 

A rmstrong's Farewell — fine. 

Theauthor of the Highland Queen wa,s 
a Mr. Mlver, Purser of the Sulboy. 



249 

Fife an' a' the land about il„R. Fergus- 
son. 

The author of The hush aboon Tra- 
quair, was a Dr. Stewart. 

Polwart on the Green, composed by 
Captain John Drummond M'Grigur of 
Bochaldie. 

Mem. To inquire if Mrs. Cochburn 
was the author of / hae seen the smiling, 
Sic. 



The above may serve as a specimen. 
All the notes on farming are obliterated. 

J^ote. C. Seep. 30, 31. 

Rides and regulations to be observed in 
the Bachelors' Club. 

1st. The club shall meet at Tarbolton 
every fourth Monday night, when a ques- 
tion on any subject shall be proposed, 
disputed points of religion, only excepted, 
in the manner hereafter directed ; which 
question is to be debated in the club, 
each member taking whatever side he 
thinks proper. 

2d. When the club is met, the presi- 
dent, or, he failing, some one of the mem- 
bers, till he come, shall take his seat ; 
then the other members shall seat tnem- 
selves : those who are for one side of the 
question, on the president's right hand ; 
and those who are for the other side on 
his left ; which of them shall have the 
right hand is to be determined by the 
president. The president and four of the 
members being present, shall have pow- 
er to transact any ordinary part of the so- 
ciety's business. 

3d. The club met and seated, the pre- 
sident shall read the question out of the 
club's book of records, (which book is 
always to be kept by the president,) 
then the two members nearest the presi- 
dent shall cast lots who of them shall 
speak first, and according as the lot shall 
determine, the member nenrest the pre- 
sident on that side shall deliver his opin- 
ion, and the member nearest on the other 
side shall reply to him ; then the second 
member of the side that spoke first ; then 
the second member of the side that spoke 
second ; and so on to the end of the com- 
pany ; but if there be fewer members on 
the one side than on the other, when all 
the member^ of the least side have spo- 



250 

ken according to thoir places, any of 
them, as they please among- themselves, 
may reply to the remainintr members of 
the opposite side : when both sides have 
spoken, the president shall give his opin- 
ion, after which they may go over it a se- 
cond or more times, and so continue the 
question. 

4th. The club shall then proceed to 
the choice of a question for the subject of 
ii^xt night's meeting. The president 
hall tirst propose one, and any other 
member who chooses may propose more 
questions; and whatever one of them is 
most agreeable to the majority of mem- 
bers, shall be the subject of debate next 
club-night. 

5th. The club shall, lastly, elect a new 
president for the next meeting : the pre- 
sident shall first name one, then any of 
the club may name another, and whoever 
of them has the majority of votes shall 
be duly elected ; allowing the president 
the first vote, and the casting vote upon 
a par, but none other. Then after a ge- 
neral toast to mistresses of the club, they 
shall dismiss. 

6th. There shall be no private conver- 
sation carried on during the time of de- 
bate, nor shall any member interrupt 
another while he is speaking, under the 
penalty of a reprimand from the presi- 
dent for the first fault, doubling his share 
of the reckoning for the second, trebling 
it for the third, and so on in proportion for 
every other fault, provided alvvay, how- 
ever, that any member may speak at any 
time after leave asked, and given by the 
president. All swearing and profane lan- 
guage, and particularly all obscene and 
indecent conversation, is strictly prohibit- 
ed, under the same penalty as aforesaid 
in the first clause of this article. 



APPENDIX, NO. 2. 



7th. No member, on any pretence 
whatever, shall mention any of the club's 
affairs to any other person but a brother 
member, under the pain of being ex- 
cluded ; and particularly if any member 
shall reveal any of the speeches or affairs 
of the club, with a view to ridicule or 
laugh at any of the rest of the members, 
1)'^ shall be for ever excommunicated from 
the society ; and the rest of tlie members 



8th. Every member shall attend at the 
meetings, without he can give a proper 
excuse for not attending ; and it is de- 
sired that every one who cannot attend, 
will send his excuse with some othef 
member : and he who shall be absent 
three meetings without sending such ex- 
cuse, shall be summoned to the club-night, 
when if he fail to appear, or send an ex- 
cuse he shall be excluded. 

9th. The club shall not consist of more 
than sixteen members, all bachelors, be- 
longing to the parish of Tarbolton : ex- 
cept a brother member marry, and in that 
case he may be continued, if the majority 
of the club think proper. No person 
shall be admitted a member of this soci- 
ety, without the unanimous consent of 
the club ; and any member may withdraw 
from the club altogether, by giving a no- 
lice to the president in writing of his de- 
parture. 

10th. Every man proper for a member 
of this society, must have a frank, honest, 
open heart ; above any thing dirty or 
mean ; and must be a profest lover of one 
or more of the female sex. No haughty, 
self-conceited person, who looks upon 
himself as superior to the rest of the club, 
and especially no mean-spirited, worldly 
mortal, whose only will is to heap up mo- 
ney, shall upon any pretence whatever 
be admitted. In short, the proper per- 
son for tills society is, a cheerful, honest 
hearted lad, who, if he has a friend that 
is true, and a mistress that is kind, and 
as much wealth as genteelly to make both 
ends meet — is just as happy as this world 
can make him. 

J^ote D. See p. 84. 



A great number of manuscript poems 
were found among the papers of Burns, 
addressed to him by admirers of his ge- 
nius, from different parts of Britain, as well 
as from Ireland and America. Among 
these was a poetical epistle from Mr. 
Telford, of Shrewsbury, of superior me- 
rit. It is written in the dialect of Scot- 
land (of which country Mr. Telford is a 
native,! and in the versification general- 
ly employed by onr poet himself. Its ob- 
ject is to recommend to him other sub- 
jects of a serious nature, similar to that 
of the Coffer'. 1 Saturday Jfis:ht ; and the 



ar(> (iesired, as much as possible, to avoid, I reader will find that the advice is happily 
and Imve no communication with him as I enforced by example. It would have 

I given the editor pleasure to have insert- 



a friend o comrade 



APPENDIX, NO, 2. 



251 



ed the whole of this poem, which he 
hopes will one day see the light : he is 
happy to have obtained, in the mean time, 
his friend Mr. Telford's permission to in- 
sert the followinsr extracts : 



Pursue, O Burns ! thy happy style, 
" Those manner-painting strains," that while 
They bear me nortliward moiiy a mile, 

Recall the days, 
Wiien tender joys, with pleasing smile, 

Bless'd my young ways. 

I see my fond companions rise, 
I join the happy village joys, 
I see our green hills touch the skies. 

And through the woods, 

• I hear the river's rushing noise. 

Its roaring floods.* 

No distant Swiss with warmer glow, 
E'er heard his native music flow. 
Nor could his wishes stronger grow. 

Than still have mine, 
When up this ancient mountt I go, 

With songs of thine. 

O happy Bard ! thy gcn'rous flame 

Was given to raise thy country's fame ; 

For this thy charming numbers came — 

Thy matchless lays ; 

Then sing, and save her virtuous name. 

To latest days. 

But mony a theme awaits thy muse, 
Fine as thy Cotter's sacred views. 
Then in such verse thy soul infuse. 
With holy air; 
And sing the course the pious choose, 
With all thy care. 

How with religious awe impressed. 
They open lay the guileless breast , 
And youth and age with fears distress'd. 

All due prepare. 
The symbols of eternal rest 

Devout to share. J 

How down ilk lang withdrawing hill. 
Successive crowds the valleys fill ; 
While pure religious converse still 

Beguiles tlie way, 
And gives a cast to youthful will. 

To suit the day. 

* The banks of Ksk, in Diimfries-sliire, are here al- 
lii.ied to. 

t A beautiful little mount, whi'^h stands immediate- 
ly beUnc, or riulicr loniis a part of Slirowsburj" castle, 
a soat of Sir William Piiltciicy, baroni^t- 

} The Sacrament, pcnerallyadtninistered in lliecoiin- 
trv parishes of Scotland in the upen air. K. 

E e. '2 



How placed along the sacred board, 
Their hoary pastor's looks adored, — 
His voice with peace and blessing stored. 

Sent from above ; 
And faith, and hope, and joy afford. 

And boundless love. 

O'er this, with warm seraphic glow. 
Celestial beings, pleased bow ; 
And, whisper'd, hear the holy vow, 

'Mid grateful tears ; 
And mark amid such scenes below. 

Their future peers. 



O mark the awful solemn scene !* 
When hoary winter clothes the plain, 
Along the snowy hills is seen 

Approaching slow, 
In mourning weeds, the village train, 

In silent wo. 

Some much respected brother's bier 
("By turns the pious task they share) 
With heavy hearts they forward bear 

Along the path. 
Where nei'bours saw in dusky air,t 

The light of death. 

And when they pass the rocky how. 
Where binwood bushes o'er them flow, 
And move around the rising knowe. 

Where far away 
The kirk-yard trees are seen to grow. 

By th' water brae. 

Assembled round the narrow grave. 
While o'er them wintery tempests rave, 
In the cold wind their gray locks wave. 

As low they lay 
Their brother's body 'mongst the lave 
Of parent clay. 

Expressive looks from each declaro 
The griefs within, their bosoms bear; 
One holy bow devout they .«hare. 

Then home return. 
And think o'er all the virtues fair 

Of him they mourn. 



Say how by early lessons taught, 
(Truth's pleasing air is willing caught) 
Congenial to th' untainted tlionght. 

The shepherd boy, 
Who tends his flocks on lonely lieight, 

Feels holy joy. 



A Scoih funeral. 



E. 



t This alludes to a superstition prevalent in Eskftafo, 
and Annandale, that a light precedes in the night eve- 
ry funeral, marking the precise path it is to pass. K 



962 



APPENDIX, NO. 3. 



Is aught on earth so lovely known, 
On sabbath morn and far alone. 
His guileless soul all naked shown 

Before his God — 
Such pray'rs must welcome reach the throne, 

And bless'd abode. 

tell ! with what a heartfelt joy. 
The parent eyes the virtuous boy ; 
And all his constant, kind employ. 

Is how to give 
The best of lear he can enjoy, 

As means to live. 

The parish-school, its curious site. 
The master who can clear indite, 
And lead him on to count and write. 

Demand thy care ; 
Nor pass the ploughman's school at night 

Without a share. 

Nor yet the tenty curious lad, 
Who o'er the ingle hings his head. 
And begs of nei'bours books to read ; 

For hence arise 
Thy country's sons, who far are spread, 
Eaith bauld and wise. 



The bonnie lasses, as they spin. 
Perhaps with Allan's sangs begin, 
How Tay and Tweed smooth flowing rin 

Through flowery hows ; 
Where Shepherd lads their sweethearts win 

With earnest vows. 

Or may be, Burns, thy thrilling page 
May a' their virtuous tlioughts engage. 
While playful youth and placid age 

In concert join. 
To bless the bard, who, gay or sage, 

Improves the mind. 



Long may their harmless, simple ways. 
Nature's own pure emotions raise ; 
May still the dear romantic blaze 

Of purest love. 
Their bosoms warm to latest days. 

And ay improve. 

May still each fond attachment glow. 
O'er woods, o'er streams, o'er hills of snow. 
May rugged rocks still dearer grow ; 

And may their souls 
Even love the warlock glens which through 
The tempest howls. 

To eternize such themes as these, 
And all their happy manners seize, 
Will every virtuous bosom please ; 

And high in fame 
To future times will justly raise 

Thy patriot name. 



While all the venal tribes decay. 
That bask in flattery's flaunting ray— 
The noisome vermin of a day, 

Tliy works shall gain 
O'er every mind a boundless sway, 
A lasting reign. 

When winter binds the harden'd plains, 
Around each hearth, the hoary swains 
Still teach the rising youth thy strains ; 

And anxious say. 
Our blessing with our sons remains, 

And BuRNs's Lay I 



No. III. 

[First inserted in the Second Edition.) 

The editor has particular pleasure in 
presenting to the public the following let- 
ter, to the due understanding of which a 
few previous observations are necessary. 

The Biographer of Burns was natural- 
ly desirous of hearing the opinion of the 
friend and brother of the poet, on the 
manner in which he had executed his 
task, before a second edition should he 
committed to the press. He had the sa- 
tisfaction of receiving this opinion, in a 
letter dated the 24th of August, approving 
of the Life in very obliging terms, and 
offering one or two trivial corrections as 
to names and dates chiefly, which are 
made in this edition. One or two obser- 
vations were offered of a different kind. 
In the 319th page of the first volume, 
first edition, a quotation is made from the 
pastoral song, Ettrich Banks, and an ex- 
planation given of the phrase " mony 
feck," which occurs in this quotation. 
Supposing the sense to be complete after 
"mony," the editor had considered "feck" 
a rustic oath which confirmed the asser- 
tion. The words were therefore sepa- 
rated by a comma. Mr. Burns consider- 
ed this an error. " Feck," he presumes, 
is the Scottish word for quantity, and 
" mony feck," to mean simply, very many. 
The editor in yielding to this authority, 
expressed some hesitation, and hinted 
that the phrase " mony feck" was, in 
Burns's sense, a pleonasm or barbarism 
which deformed this beautiful song.* 

♦ The correction made by Gilbert Burns has also 
been siisjcested by a writer in tlie Monthly MairaTijije, 
under the sisnature o( Jllhion: who, for taking this 
trouble, and for mentioninfj the author of the poem of 
Donnocht head deserves the Editor's thanks. 



APPENDIX, NO. 3. 



His reply to this observation makes the 
first clause of the following letter. 

In the same communication he informed 
me, that the Mirror and the Lounger were 
proposed by him to the Conversation Club 
of Mauchline, and that he had thoughts 
of giving' me his sentiments on the re- 
marks I had made respecting the fitness 
of such works for such societies. The 
observations of such a man on such a sub- 
ject, the Editor conceived, would be re- 
ceived with particular interest by the 
public ; and. having pressed earnestly for 
them, they will be found in the following 
letter. Of the value of this communica- 
tion, delicacy towards his very respecta- 
ble correspondent prevents him from ex- 
pressing his opinion. The original let- 
ter is in the hands of Messrs. Caddell and 
Davies. 

Dinning, Dumfries-shire, 24th Oct. 1 800. 



DEAR SIR, 

Yours of the 17th inst. came to my 
hand yesterday, and I sit down this after- 
noon to write you in return : but when I 
shall be able to finish all I wish to say to 
you, I cannot tell. I am sorry your con- 
viction is not complete respecting feck. 
There is no doubt, that if you take two 
English words which appear synonymous 
to mony feck, and judge by the rules of 
English construction, it will appear a bar- 
barism. I believe if you take this mode 
of translating from any language, the ef- 
fect will frequently be the same. But if 
you take the expression many feck to 
have, as 1 have stated it, the same mean- 
in with the English expression very many 
(and such license every translator must 
be allowed, especially when he translates 
from a simple dialect which has never 
been subjected to rule, and where the 
precise meaning of words is of conse- 
quence, not minutely attended to,) it will 
be well enough. One thing I am certain 
of, that ours is the sense universally un- , . 
derstood in the country ; and I believe no ^^^'^ '^"'' distresses. 
Scotsman, who has lived contented at 
home, pleased with the simple manners, 
the simple melodies, and the simple dia- 
lect of his native country, unvitiated by 
foreign intercourse, " whose soul proud 
science never taught to stray," ever dis- 
covered barbarism in the song of Ettrick 
Banks. 



253 

ply as follows;* — When my faflier built 
his " clay biggin," he put in two stone- 
jambs, as they are called, and a lintel, 
carrying up a chimney in his clay gable. 
The consequence was, that as the gable 
subsided, the jambs, remaining firm, 
threw it off" its centre ; and, one very 
stormy morning, when my brother was 
nine or ten years old, a little before day- 
light a part of the gable fell out, and the 
rest appeared so shattered, that my mo- 
ther with the young poet, had to be car- 
ried through the storm to a neighbour's 
house, where they remained a week till 
their own dwelling was adjusted. That 
you may not think too meanly of this 
house, or my father's taste in building, 
by supposing the poet's description in The 
Vision (which is entirely a fancy picture) 
applicable to it, allow me to take notice 
to you, that the house consisted of a kit- 
chen in one end, and a room in the other, 
with a fire place and chimney ; that my 
father had constructed a concealed bed in 
the kitchen, with a small closet at the 
end, of the same materials with the house; 
and, when altogether cast over, outside 
and in, with lime, it had a neat comforta- 
ble appearance, such as no family of the 
same rank, in the present improved style 
of living, would think themselves ill-lodg- 
ed in. I wish likewise to take notice, in 
passing, that although the " Cotter," in 
the Saturday Night, is an exact copy of 
my father in his manners, his family-de- 
votion, and exhortations, yet the other 
parts of the description do not apply to 
our family. None of us were ever " at 
service out amang the neebors roun." In- 
stead of our depositing our " sairwon pen- 
ny fee" with our parents, my father la- 
boured hard, and lived with the most ri- 
gid economy, that he might be able to 
keep his children at home, thereby hav- 
ing an opportunity of watching the pro- 
gress of our young minds and forming in 
them earlier habits of piety and virtue; 
and from this motive alone did he engage 
in farming, the source of all his difficul- 



The story yon have heard of the gable 
of my father's house falling down, is sim- 



When I threatened you in my last with 
a long letter on the subject of the books 
I recommended to the Mauchline club, 
and the effects of refinement of taste on 
the labouring classes of men, I meant 
merely, that I wished to write you on 



* The Kditor had heard n ropnri that thn poet was 
born in tlie midst of D storm which blew down a pail 
or the house. E. 



254 



APPENDIX. NO. 3. 



that subject with the view that, in some 
future communication to the public, you 
might take up the subject more at large ; 
that, by means of your happy manner of 
writing, the attention of people of power 
and influence might be fixed on it. 1 had 
little expectation, however, that I should 
evercome my indolence, and the difficulty 
of arranging my thoughts so for as to 
put my threat in execution ; till some 
time ago, before I had finished my har- 
vest, having a call from Mr. Ewart,* with 
a message from you, pressing me to the 
performance of this task, 1 thought my- 
self no longer at liberty to decline it, and 
resolved to set about it with my first lei- 
sure. I will now therefore endeavour to 
lay before you what has occurred to my 
mind, on a subject where people capable 
of observation and of placing their re- 
marks in a proper point of view, have sel- 
dom an opportunity of making their re- 
marks on real life. In doing this, I may 
perhaps be led sometimes to write more 
in the manner of a person communicating 
information to you which you did not 
know before, and at other times more in 
the style of egotism, than I would choose 
to do to any person, in whose candour, 
and even personal good will, I had less 
confidence. 

There are two several lines of study 
that open to every man as he enters life : 
the one, the general science of life, of du- 
ty, and of happiness; the other, the par- 
ticular arts of his employment or situa- 
tion in society, and the several branches 
of knowledge therewith connected. This 
last is certainly indispensable, as nothing 
can be more disgraceful than ignorance 
in the way of one's own profession ; and 
whatever a man's speculative knowledge 
may be, if he is ill-informed there, he can 
neither be a useful nor a respectable mem- 
ber of society. It is nevertheless true, 
that " the proper study of mankind is 
man :" to consider what duties are in- 
cumbent on him as a rational creature, 
and a member of society ; how he may 
increase or secure his happiness : and 
how he may prevent or soften the many 
miseries incident to human life. I think 
the pursuit of happiness is too frequently 
confined to the endeavour after the acqui- 
sition of wealth. I do not wish to be con- 
sidered as an idle declaimer against riclies, 
which, after all that can be said against 

* The Editor's frieiitl Mr. Peter Ewart of Manclics 
l<?r. E. 



them, will still be considered by men of 
common sense as objects of importance; 
and poverty will be felt as a sore evil, af- 
ter all the fine things that can be said of 
its advantages ; on the contrary I am of 
opinion, that a great proportion of the 
miseries of life arise from the want of eco- 
nomy, and a prudent attention to money, 
or the ill-directed or intemperate pursuit 
of it. But however valuable riches may 
be as the means of comfort, independence, 
and the pleasure of doing good to others, 
yet I am of opinion, that they may be, and 
frequently are, purchased at too great a 
cost, and that sacrifices are made in the 
pursuit, which the acquisition cannot 
compensate. I remember hearing my 
worthy teacher,, Mr. Murdoch, relate an 
anecdote to my father, which I think 
sets this matter in a strong light, and per- 
haps was the origin, or at least tended to 
promote this way of thinking in me. 
When Mr. Murdoch left Albway, he 
went to teach and reside in the family of 
an opulent farmer who had a number of 
sons. A neiglibour coming on a visit, 
in the course of conversation, asked the 
father how he meant to dispose of his 
sons. The father replied that he had not 
determined. The visitor said, that were 
he in his place he would give them all 
good education and send them abroad, 
without (perhaps) having a precise idea 
where. The father objected, that many 
younp; men lost their health in foreign 
countries, and many their lives. True, 
replied the visitor, but as you have a num- 
ber of sons, it will be strange if someone 
of them does not live and make a for- 
tune. 

Let any person who has the feelings of 
a father, comment on this story ; but 
though few will avow, even to themselves 
that such views govern their conduct, 
yet do we not daily see people shipping off 
their sons (and who would do so by their 
daughters also, if there were any demand 
for them,) that they may be rich or perish ? 

The education of the lower classes is 
seldom considered in any other point of 
view than as the means of raising them 
from that station to which they were born, 
and of making a fortune. I am ignorant 
of the mysteries of the art of acquiring a 
fortune without any thing to begin with ; 
and cannot calculate, with any degree of 
exactness, the difhcultics to be surmount- 
ed, the mortifications to be suffered, ■ nd 
the degradation of character to be dub- 



APPENDIX, NO. 3. 



mitted to, in lending one's self to be the 
minister of other people's vices, or in the 
practice of rapine, fraud, oppression, or dis- 
Eimnlatinn,in the progress; but even when 
the wished for end is attained, it may be 
questioned whether happiness be much 
increased by the change. When I have 
seei. a fortunate adventurer of the lower 
ranl-s of life returned from tlie East or 
Wes( Indies, with all the hauteur of a 
vulgar mind accustomed to be served by 
slaves; assuming a character whicli, from 
the eaily habits of life, he is ill-fitted to 
support ; displaying magnificence which 
raises the envy of some, and the contempt 
ofotliers; claiming an equality with the 
great, which they are unwilling to allow ; 
inly pining at the precedence of the he- 
reditary gentry ; maddened by the polish- 
ed insolence of some of the unworthy part 
of theni; seeking pleasure in the society 
of men who can condescend to flatter him, 
and listen to his absurdity for the sake of 
a good dinner and good wine : I cannot 
avoid concluding, that his brother, or com- 
panion, who, by a diligent application to 
the labours of agriculture, or some useful 
mechanic employment, and the careful hus- 
banding of his gains, has acquired a com- 
petence in his station, is a much happier, 
and, in the eye of a person who can take 
an enlarged view of mankind, a much 
more respectable man. 

But the votaries of wealth may be con- 
sidered as a great number of candidates 
striving for a few prizes : and whatever 
addition the successful may make to their 
pleasure or happiness, the disappointed 
will always have more to sufl^er, I am 
afraid, than those who abide contented 
in the station to which they were born. 
I wish, therefore, the education of the 
lower classes to be promoted and direct- 
ed to their improvement as men, as the 
means of increasing their virtue, and 
opening to them new and dignified sources 
of pleasure and happiness. I have heard 
some people object to the education of 
(he lower classes of men, as rendering 
Ihem less useful, by abstracting them 
from their proper business ; others, as 
tending to make them saucy to their su- 
periors, impatient of their condition, and 
turbulent subjects ; while you, with more 
humanity, have your fears alarmed, lest 
the delicacy of mind, induced by that sort 
of education and reading T recommend, 
should render the evils of their situation 
insupportable to them. I wish to ex- 
amine the validity of each of these ob- 



255 

jections, beginning with the one you have 
mentioned. 

I do not mean to controvert your criti- 
cism of my favourite books, the Mirror 
and Lounger, although T understand 
there arc people who think themselves 
judges, who do not agree with you. The 
acquisition of knowledge, except what is 
connected with human life and conduct, 
or the particular business of his employ- 
ment, does not appear to me to be the fit- 
test pursuit for a peasant. I would say 
with the poet, 

" How empty learning, and how vain is art 
Save where it guides the life, ornieiids the heart.' 

There seems to be a considerable lati- 
tude in the use of the word taste. I un- 
derstand it to be the perception and.re- 
lish of beauty, order, or any thing, the 
contemplation of which gives pleasure 
and delight to the mind. I suppose it is 
in this sense you wish it to be understood. 
If I am right, the taste which these books 
are calculated to cultivate (besides the 
taste for fine writing, which many of the 
papers tend to improve and to gratify,) is 
what is proper, consistent, and becoming 
in human character and conduct, as al 
most every paper relates to these sub 
jects. 

I am sorry T have not these books by 
me, that I might point out some instances. 
I remember two; one the beautiful story 
of La Roch, where, beside the pleasurg 
one derives from a beautiful simple story, 
told in M'Kenzie's happiest manner, the 
mind is led to taste with hearttelt rap- 
ture, the consolation to be derived in 
deep affliction, from habitual devotion 
and trust in Almighty God. The other, 

the story of general W , where the 

reader is led to have a high relish for 
that firmness of mind which disregards 
appearances, the common forms and vani- 
ties of life, for the sake of doing justice 
in a case which was out of the reach of 
human laws. 

Allow me then to remark, that if the 
morality of these books is subordinate to 
the cultivation of taste ; tJiat taste, that 
refinement of mind and delicacy of senti- 
ment which they are intended to give, 
are the strongest guard and surest foun- 
dation of morality and virtue. — Other 
moralists guard, as it were, the overt act ; 
these papers, by exalting duty mto senti- 
ment, are calculated to make every de- 



25C 



APPENDIX, NO. 3. 



viation from rectitude and propriety of 
conduct, painful to the mind, 

" Wluisc temper'd powers, 
Refine at length, and every passion wears 
A chaster, milder, more attractive mien." 

T readily grant you, that the refinement 
of mind which I contend for, inscrcascs 
our sensibility to the evils of life ! but 
what station of life is without its evils ! 
There seems to be no such thing as per- 
fect happiness in this world, and we must 
balance the pleasure and the pain wliich 
we derive from taste, before we can pro- 
perly appreciate it in the case before us. 
1 apprehend that on a minute examina- 
tion it will appear, that the evils peculiar 
to the lower ranks of life, derive their 
power to wound us, more from tlie sug- 
gestions of false pride, and the " conta- 
gion of luxury, weak and vile," than the 
refinement of our taste. It was a favour- 
ite remark of my brother's, that there wns 
Jio part of the constitution of our nature, to 
which we wore more indebted, than that 
by which " Cuslom makrs thinas J'amiUnr 
and easif (a copy Mr. Murdoch used to 
set us to write,) and there is little labour 
which custom will not make easy to a 
man in health, if he is not ashamed of his 
employment, or does not begin to com- 
pare his situation with those he may see 
going about at their ease. 

But the man of enlarged mind feels the 
respect due to him as a man; he has 
learned that no employment is dishonour- 
able in itself; that while he performs 
aright the duties of that station in which 
God has placed him, he is as great as a king 
in the eyes of Him whom he is principal- 
ly desirous to please ; for the man of taste, 
who is constantly obliged to labour, must 
of necessity be religious. If you tench 
him only to reason, you may make him 
an atheist, a demagogue, or any vile thing; 
but if you teach him to feel, his feelings 
can only find their proper and natural re- 
lief in devotion and religious resignation. 
He knows that those people who are to 
appearance at ease, are not without their 
share of evils, and that even toil itself is 
not destitute of advantages. He listens 
to the words of his favourite poet : 

" O mortal man that livcst here by toil, 
Cease to repine and grudge thy hard estate ! 

That like an rniniet thou must evermojl, 
Is a sad sentence of an ancient date ; 

And, ceites, there is for it reason great ; 
Although sometimes it makes thee weep and wail, 

And curse thy star, and early drudge, and late ; 



Withouten that would come an heavier bale, 
Loose life, unruly passions, and diseases pale!" 

And, while he repeats the words, the 
grateful recollection comes across his 
mind, liow often he has derived inetfable 
pleasure from the sweet song of " Na- 
ture's darling child." I can say, from my 
own experience, that there is no sort of 
farm-labour inconsistent with the most 
refined and pleasurable state of the mind 
that I am acquainted with, thrashing 
alone excepted. That, indeed, I havo 
always considered as insupportable drudg- 
ery, and think the ingenious mechanic 
who invented the thrashing machine, 
ought to have a statue among the bene- 
factors of his coimtry, and should be pla- 
ced in tiie niche next to the person who 
introduced the culture of potatoes into 
this island. 

Perhaps the thing of most importance 
in the education of the common people is, 
to prevent the intrusion of artificial wants. 
I bless the memory of my worthy father 
for almost every thing in the dispositions 
of my mind, and my h-i ts of life, which 
I can ap])roveof: and lur none more than 
the pains he took to impress my mind 
with the sentiment, that nothing was 
more imworthy the character of a man, 
than that his happiness should in the 
least depend on what he should eat or 
drink. So early did he impress my mind 
with this, that although I was as fond of 
sweatmeats as children generally are, yet 
I seldom laid out any of the half-pence 
which relations or neighbours gave me at 
fairs, in the purchase of them ; and if I 
did, every mouthful I swallowed was ac- 
companied with shame and remorse; and 
to this hour I never indulge in the use of 
any delicacy, but I feel a considerable de- 
gree of self-reproach and alarm for the de- 
gradation of the human character. Such 
a habit of thinking I consider as of great 
consequence, both to the virtue and hap- 
piness of men in the lower ranks of life. — 
And thus, Sir, I am of opinion, that if 
their minds are early and deeply impress- 
ed with a sense of the dignity of man, as 
sucli ; with the love of independence and 
of industry, economy and temperance, as 
the most obvious means of making them- 
selves independent, and the virtues most 
becoming their situation, and necessary 
to their happiness; men in the lower 
ranks of life may partake of the pleasures 
to be derived from the perusal of books 
calculated to improve the mind and re- 



AIPENDIX, NO. 3. 



257 



fiiip the taste, without any danger of be- 
cominiT more iinliappy in their situation 
or dis'oontontcd with it. Nor do I tiiink 
there is any danger of their becoming 
less useful. There are some hours every 
day that the most constant labourer is 
noitlicr at work nor asleep. These hours 
are either appropriated to amusement or 
to sloth. If a taste for employing these 
hours in reading were cultivated, I do not 
suppose that the return to labour would 
be more dilhcult. Every one will allow, 
that the attachment to idle amusements, 
or even to sloth, has as powerful a ten- 
dency to abstract men from their proper 
business, as the attachment to books; 
while the one dissipates the mind, and 
the other tends to increase its powers of 
self-government. To those who are 
afraid that the improvement of the minds 
of tlie common people miglit be danger- 
ous to the state, or the established order 
of society, I would remark, that turbu- 
lence and commotion arc certainly very 
inimical to the feelings of a refined mind. 
Let the matter be brought to the test of 
experience and observation. Of what 
description of people are mobs and insur- 
rections composed ? Are they not univer- 
Bally owing to the want of enlargement 
and improvement of mind among the com- 
mon people ? Nay, let any one recollect 
the characters of those who formed the 
calmer and more deliberate associations, 
which lately gave so much alarm to the 
government of this country. I suppose 
few of the common people who were to 
be found in such societies, had the educa- 
tion and turn of mind I have been en- 
deavouring to recommend. Allow me to 
suggest one reason for endeavouring to 
enlighten the minds of the common peo- 
ple. Their morals have hitherto been 
guarded by a sort of dim religious awe, 
which from a variety of causes, seems 
wearing off. I think the alteration in 
this respect considerable, in the short pe- 
riod of my observation. T have already 
given my opinion of the effects of refine- 
ment of mind on morals and virtue. 
Whenever vulgar minds begin to shake 
off the dogmas of the religion in wiiich 
they have been educated, the progress is 
quick and immediate to downright infi- 
delity; and nothing b\it refinement of 
mind can enable them to distinguish be- 
tween the pure essence of religion, and 
the gross systems which men have been 
perpetually connecting it with. In addi- 
tion to what has already been done for 
tbc education of the common people of 



this country, in the establishment of par- 
ish schools, I wish to see the salaries 
augmented in some proportion to the 
present expense of living, and the earn- 
ings of people of sin)dar rank, endow- 
ments, and usefulness in society ; and I 
hope that the liberality of the' present 
age will be no longer disgraced by re- 
fusing, to so useful a class of men, such en- 
couragement as may make parish schools 
wortli the attention of men fitted for the 
important duties of that office. In filling 
up the vacancies, I would have more at- 
tention paid to the candidate's capacity 
of reading tlie English language with 
grace and propriety ; to his understand- 
ing thoroughly, and having a high relish 
for t)u3 beauties of English authors, both 
in poetry and prose ; to tliat good sense 
and knowledge of human nature which 
would enable him to acquire some influ- 
ence on the minds and affections of his 
scholars ; to the general worth of his 
character, and the love of his king and 
his country, than to Ids proficiency in the 
knowledge of Latin and Greek. I would 
then have a sort of high English class es- 
tablished, not only for the purpose of 
teaching the pupils to read in that grace- 
ful and agreeable manner that might make 
them fond of reading, but to make them 
understand what they read, and discover 
the beauties of the author, in composition 
and sentiment. I would have established 
in every parish, a small circulating libra- 
ry, consisting of the books which the 
young people liad read extracts from in the 
collections they had read at school, and 
any other books well calculated to refine 
the mind, improve the moral fecUngs, re- 
commend the practice of virtue, and com- 
municate such knowledge as might be 
useful and suitable to the labouring class- 
es of men. I would have the schoolmas- 
ter act as librarian, and in recommending 
books to his young friends, formerly his 
pupils, and letting in the light of them 
upon their young minds, he should have 
the assistance of the minister. If once 
such education were become general, the 
low delights of the public house, and 
other scenes of riot and depravity, would 
be contemned and neglected; while indus- 
try, order, cleanliness, and every virtue 
which taste and independence of mind 
could recommend, would prevail and 
flourish. Thus possessed of a virtuous 
and enlightened populace, with high de- 
light I should consider my native coun- 
try as at the brad of all the nations of the 
earth, ancient or modern. 



258 



APPENDIX, NO. 3. 



Thus, Sir, have I executed my threat 
to the fullest extent, in regard to the 
length of my letter. If I had not pre- 
sumed on doing it more to my liking, I 
should not have undertaken it ; but I 
have not time to attempt it anew ; nor, 
if I would, am I certain that I should suc- 
ceed any better. I have learned to have 
less confidence in my capacity of writing 
on such subjects. 

I am much obliged by your kind inqui- 
ries about my situation and prospects. I 
am much pleased with the soil of this 
farm, and with the terms on which I pos- 
sess it. I receive great encouragement 
likewise in building, enclosing, and other 
conveniences, from my landlord, Mr. G. 
S. Monteith, whose general character 
and conduct, as a landlord and country 
gentleman, I am highly pleased with. 
But the land is in such a state as to 
require a considerable immediate outlay 
of money in the purchase of manure, the 
grubbing of brush-wood, removing of 
stones, &c. which twelve years' struggle 
with a farm of a cold, ungrateful soil has 
but ill prepared me for. If I can get 
these things done, however, to my mind, 



I think there is next to a certainty that 
in five or six years I shall be in a hopeful 
way of attaining a situation which I think 
as eligible for happiness as any one I 
know ; for I have always been of opinion, 
that if a man bred to the habits of a farm- 
ing life, who possesses a farm of good 
soil, on such terms as enables him easily 
to pay all demands, is not happy, he ought 
to look somewhere else than to his situa- 
tion for the causes of his uneasiness. 

I beg you will present my most respect- 
ful compliments to Mrs. Currie, and re- 
member me to Mr. and Mrs. Roscoe, and 
Mr. Roscoe, junior, whose kind atten- 
tions to me, when in Liverpool, I shall 
never forget. 

I am, dear Sir, 

Your most obedient, and 

Much obliged, humble Servant, 

GILBERT BURNS. 

To James Currie, M. D. F. R. S. > 

Liverpool. J 



ADDITIONAL POEMS 



EXTRACTED FROM 



THE LATE EDITION OF BURNS'S WORKS, 



EDITED BY 



ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 



The careless manner in which Burns distributed many of his effusions 
among his friends, with scarcely any regard to their preservation, has hitherto 
rendered a complete edition of his works a desideratum very difficult of attain- 
ment. Short poems, of great merit, have been, from time to time, rescued from 
obscurity, and inserted in the successive editions of his works; but a con- 
siderable number were, from a variety of considerations, still suppressed, 
until the recent publication of Cunningham's edition has brought them to light. 
With respect to some of these fugitive pieces, the reasons for their suppression 
are sufficiently obvious, even if they had not been fairly and very properly 
avowed by the poet himself. They are such as could neither do honour to him, 
nor service to the public at large ; and although their original effusion may be 
excusable, in consideration of the political or personal feelings which prompted 
them, yet their preservation is no less unjust to the reputation of the bard, 
.han detrimental to the cause of good taste and pure morality. 

These observations are applicable to a part only of the additions to Burns's 
Works, which have been made in Cunningham's edition. All those pieces to 
which they do not, with greater or less force, apply, have been introduced into 
the new edition which we now offer to the public, and which we believe to be 
entitled, in every proper and worthy sense, to be considered the Complete 
Works of Burns ; inasmuch as we are fully convinced that a revision of his 
works by the author himself, would have left nothing in them which we have 
not retained. 



ADDITIONAL POEMS 



HOLY WILLIE'S PRAYER. 

Thot7, wha in the heavens dost dwell, 
Wha, as it pleases best thysel', 

Sends ane to heaven, and ten to hell, 

A' for thy glory, 
And no for ony gude or ill 

They've done afore thee ! 

1 bless and praise thy matchless might. 
Whan thousands thou hast left in night, 
That I am here afore thy sight. 

For gifts and grace, 
A bumin' and a shinin' light 
To a' this place. 

What was I, or my generation, 
That I should get sic exaltation, 
I wha deserve sic just damnation. 

For broken laws. 
Five thousand years 'fore my creation. 

Thro' Adam's cause. 

When frae my mither's womb I fell. 
Thou might hae plunged me in hell, 
To gnash my gums, to weep and wail, 

In bumin' lake, 
Whar damned devils roar and yell, 

Chain'd to a stake. 

Yet I am here a chosen sample ; 

To show thy grace is great and ample ; 

I' m here a pillar in thy temple, 

Strong as a rock, 
A guide, a buckler, an example, 

To a' thy flock. 

But yet, O L — d ! confess I must. 
At times I'm fash'd wi' fleshly lust; 
And sometimes, too, wi' warldly trust, 

Vile self gets in ; 
But thou remembers we are dust, 

Defll'd in sin. 

Besides, I farther maun allow, 

Wi' Lizzie's lass, three times I trow — 

But L — d, that Friday I was fou, 

When I came near her. 
Or else, thou kens, thy servant true 

Wad ne'er hae steer'd her. 

Maybe thou lets this fleshly thorn 
Beset thy servant e'en and morn, 



Lest he owre high and proud should turn, 
'Cause he's sae gifted ; 

If sae, thy han' maun e'en be borne, 
Until thou lift it. 

L — d, bless thy chosen in this place, 
For here thou hast a chosen race : 
But G — d confound their stubborn face, 

And blast their name, 
Wha bring thy elders to disgrace 

And public shame. 

L — d, mind Gawn Hamilton's deserts. 
He drinks, and swears, and plays at carts, 
Yet has sae mony takin' arts, 

Wi' grit and sma', 
Frae G — d's ain priests the people's hearts 

He steals awa. 

An' whan we chasten'd him therefor. 
Thou kens how he bred sic a splore. 
As set the warld in a roar 

O' laughin' at us ; — 
Curse thou his basket and his store, 

Kail and potatoes. 

L — d, hear my earnest cry and pray'r, 

Against the presbyt'ry of Ayr ; 

Thy strong right hand, L — d, mak it bare 

Upo' their heads, 
L — d, weigh it down, and dinna spare. 

For their misdeeds. 

L — d my G — d, that glib-tongu'd Aiken, 
My very heart and saul are quakin'. 
To think how we stood groanin, shakin'. 

And swat wi' dread, 
While he wi' hingin lips and snakin', 

Held up his head. 

L — d, in the day of vengeance try him, 
L — d, visit them wha did employ him, 
And pass not in thy mercy by 'em. 

Nor hear their pray'r ; 
But for thy people's sake destroy 'em, 

And dinna spare. 

But, L — d, remember me and mine, 
Wi' mercies temp'ral and divine. 
That I for gear and grace may shine, 

Excell'd by nane. 
And a' the glory shall be thine, 

Amen, Amen ! 



ADDITIONAL POEMS. 



THE FAREWELL. 



"The valiant, in himself, what can he suffer 1 
Or what does ho regard his single woesi 
But when, alas ! he multiplies himself. 
To dearer selves, to the lov'd tender fair. 
To those whose hless, whose beings hang upon him, 
To helpless children ! then, O then ! he feels 
The point of misery fest'ring in his heart. 
And weakly weeps his fortune like a coward. 
Such, such am I ! undone !" 

Thomson's Edward and Eleanora. 



I. 

Faheweli, old Scotia's bleak domains, 
Far dearer than the torrid plains 

Where rich ananas blow ! 
Farewell, a mother's blessing dear ! 
A brother's sigh ! a sister's tear ! 

My Jean's heart-rending throe !_ 
Farewell my Bess ! tho' thou'rt bereft 

Of my parental care ; 
A faithful brother I have left. 
My part in him thou'lt share ! 
Adieu too, to you too. 

My Smith, my bosom frien' ; 
When kindly you mind me, 
O then befriend my Jean ! 

n. 

What bursting anguish tears my heart ! 
From thee, my Jeany, must I part ! 

Thou weeping answ'rest no ! 
Alas ! misfortune stares my face. 
And points to ruin and disgrace, 

I for thy sake must go ! 
Thee, Hamilton, and Aiken dear, 

A grateful, warm adieu ! 
I, with a much indebted tear, 
Shall still remember you ! 
All-hail then, the gale then, 

Wafts me from thee, dear shore ! 
It rustles, and whistles 
I'll never see thee more ! 



WILLIE CHALMERS. 
I. 
Wi' braw new branks in mickle pride, 

And eke a braw new brechan, 
My Pegasus I'm got astride. 

And up Parnassus pechin ; 
Whiles owre a bush wi' downward crush 

The doited beastie stammers , 
Then up he gets and off he sets 

For sake o' Willie Chalmers. 

II. 

I doubt na, lass, that weel kenn'd name 

May cost a pair o' blushes ; 
I ain nae stranger to your fame 

Nor his warm urged wishes. 



Your bonnie face sae mild and sweet, 

His honest heart enamours. 
And faith ye'U no be lost a whit, 

Tho' waired on Willie Chalmers. 

IIL 

Auld Truth hersel' might swear ye're faL 

And honour safely back her. 
And modesty assume your air. 

And ne'er a ane mistak' her : 
And sic twa love-inspiring een 

Might fire even holy Palmers ; 
Nae wonder then they've fatal been 

To honest Willie Chalmers. 

IV. 

I doubt na fortune may you shore 
Some mim-mou'd pouthered priestie, 

Fu' lifted up wi' Hebrew lore, 
And band upon his breastie : 

But Oh ! what signifies to you 
His lexicons and grammars ; 

The feeling hearts' the royal blue, 

. And that's wi' Willie Chalmers. 



Some gapin' glowrin' countra laird, 

May warsle for your favour ; 
May claw his lug, and straik his beard, 

And host up some palaver. 
My bonny maid, before ye wed 

Sic clumsy-witted hammers. 
Seek Heaven for help, and barefit skelp 

Awa' wi' Willie Chalmers. 

VL 

Forgive the Bard ! my fond regard 

For ane that shares my bosom. 
Inspires my muse to gie 'm his dues, 

For de'il a hair I roose him. 
May powers aboon unite you soon, 

And fructify your amours, — 
And every year come in mair dear 

To you and Willie Chalmers. 



LINES 



WRITTEN ON A BANK-NOTE, 

Wae worth thy power, thou cursed leaf, 
Fell source o' a' my woe and grief; 
For lack o' thee I've lost my lass. 
For lack o' thee I scrimp my glass. 
I see the children of affliction 
Unaided, through thy cursed restriction. 
I've seen the oppressor's cruel smile 
Amid his hapless victim's spoil : 
And for thy potcnce vainly wish'd. 
To crush the villain in the dust. 
For lack o' thee, I leave this much lov'd shore 
Never, perhaps, to greet old Scotland mor? 



ADDITIONAL POEMS. 



A BARD'S EPITAPH. 

Is there a whim-inspirin'r fool, 

Owre fast for thought, owre iiot for rule, 

Ovvre blai'.e to seek, owre proud to snool, 

Let him thaw near ; 
And owre his grassy heap sing dool, 

Anil drap a tear. 

Is. there a bard of rustic song. 

Who, noteless, steals the crowds among, 

That weekly this area throng, 

O, pass not by ! 
But, with a frater-fecling strong. 

Here, heave a sigh. 

Is there a man, whose judgment clear. 
Can others teach the course to steer, 
Yet runs, himself, life's mad career. 

Wild as the wave ; 
Here pause — and, through the starting tear, 

Survey this grave. 

The poor inhabitant below, 

Was quick to learn and wise to know, 

And keenly felt the friendly glow. 

And softer flame. 
But thoughtless follies laid him low. 

And stain'd his name ! 

Reader, attend — whether thy soul 
Soars fancy's flights beyond the pole. 
Or darkling grubs this earthly hole. 

In low pursuit ; 
Know, prudent, cautious self-control, 

Is wisdom's root. 



EPISTLE TO MAJOR LOGAN. 

Hah, thairm-inspirin', rattlin' Willie ! 
Though fortune's road be rough an' hilly 
To every fiddling, rhyming billie, 

We never heed, 
But take it like the unbacked filly. 

Proud o' her speed. 

When idly groavan whyles we saunter 
Yirr, fancy barks, awa' we canter 
Uphill, down brae, till some mishanter. 

Some black bog-hole. 
Arrests us, then the scathe an' banter 

We're forced to thole. 

Hale be your heart ! Hale be your fiddle ! 
Lang may your elbuck jink and diddle. 
To cl.eer you through the weary widdle 

0' this wild warl'. 
Until you on a crummock driddle 

A gray-hair'd carl. 

Come wealth, come poortith, late or soon 
Heaven send your heart-strings ay in tune, 



And screw your temper pins aboon 

A fifth or mair. 
The melancholious, lazie croon 

y cankrie care. 

May still your life from day to day 

Nae " lente largo" in the play. 

But " allegretto forte" gay 

Harmonious flow 

A sweeping, kindling, bauld strathspey- 
Encore I Bravo ! 

A blessing on the cherry gang 
Wha dearly like a jig or sang. 
An' never think o' right an' wrang 

By square an' rule, 
But as the clegs o' feeling stang 

Are wise or fool. 

My hand-waled curse keep hard in chase 
The harpy, hoodock, purse-proud race, 
W^ha count on poortith as disgrace — 

Their tuneless hearts ! 
May fireside discords jar a base 

To a' their parts ! 

But come, your hand, my careless brither, 
I'th' ither warl' if there's anither. 
An' that there is I've little swither 

About the matter ; 
We cheek for chow shall jog thegither, 

I'se ne'er bid better. 

We've faults and failings — granted clearly, 
M'^e're frail backsliding mortals merely. 
Eve's bonny squad priests wyte them sheerl 

For our grand fa' ; 
But still, but still, I like them dearly — 

God bless them a' ! 

Ochon for poor Castalian drinkers. 
When they fa' foul o' earthly jinkers. 
The witching curs'd delicious blinkers 

Hae put me hyte, 
And gart me sweet my waukrife winkers, 

Wi' girnan spite. 

But by yon moon ! — and that's high 

swearin' — 
An' every star within my hearin' ! 
An' by her een wha was a dear ane ! 

I'll ne'er forget ; 
I hope to gie the jads a clearin' 

In fair play yet. 

My loss I mourn, but not repent it, 
I'll seek my pursie whare I tint it, 
Ance to the Indies I were wonted. 

Some cantraip hour. 
By some sweet elf I'll yet be dinted, 

Then, vive V amour ! 

Faites mes baissemains respectueuse. 
To sentimental sister Susie, 



6 



ADDITIONAL POEMS. 



An' honest Lucky ; no to roose you, 

Ye may be proud, 
That sic a couple fate allows ye 

To grace your blood. 

Nae mair at present can I measure, 

A n' trowth my rhymin' ware's nae treasure ; 

But when in Ayr, some half-hour's leisure, 

Be't light, be't dark. 
Sir Bard will do himself the pleasure 

To call at Park. 
Mossgiel, 30tli October, 1786. 



THE DEATH OF ROBERf DUNDAS, Esq., 

OF ARNISTON, 
LATE LORD PRESIDENT OF THE COURT OF SESSION. 



LoxE on the bleaky hills the straying flocks 
Shun the fierce storms among the sheltering 

rocks ; 
Down from the rivulets, red with dashing 

rains. 
The gathering floods burst o'er the distant 

plains ; 
Beneath the blasts the leafless forests groan ;[ 
The hollow caves return a sullen moan. 

Ye hills, ye plains, ye forests, and ye caves. 
Ye howling winds, and wintry swelling 

waves ! 
Unheard, unseen, by human ear or eye, 
Sad to your sympathetic scenes I fly ; 
Where to the whistling blast and waters' roar 
Pale Scotia's recent wound I may deplore. 

heavy loss, thy country ill could bear ! 
A loss these evil days can ne'er repair ! 
Justice, the high vicegerent of her God, 
Her doubtful balance ey'd, and sway'd her rod ; 
Hearing the tidings of the fatal blow 
She sunk, abandon'd to the wildest woe. 

Wrongs, injuries, from many a darksome den, 
Now gay in hope explore the paths of men : 
See from his cavern grim Oppression rise, 
And throw on poverty his cruel eyes ; 
Keen on the helpless victim see him fly, 
And stifle, dark, the feebly-bursting cry : 

Mark ruflSan Violence, distain'd with crimes, 
Rousing elate in these degenerate times ; 
View unsu.specting Innocence a prey, 
As guileful Fraud points out the erring way : 
While subtile Litigation's pliant tongue = 
The life-blood equal sucks of Right and 

Wrong : 
Hark, injur'd Want recounts th' unlisten'd 

tale. 
And much-wrong'd Mis'ry pours th' unpitied 

wail ! 



Ye dark waste hills, and brown unsightlj 

plains. 
To you I sing my grief-inspired strains : 
Ye tempests, rage ! ye turbid torrents, roll ! 
Ye suit the joyless tenor of my soul. 
Life's social haunts and pleasures I resign, 
Be nameless wilds and lonely wanderings 

mine. 
To mourn the woes my country must endure, 
That wound degenerate acres cannot cure. 



EPISTLE 

TO HUGH PARKER. 

Ix this strange land, this uncouth clime, 

A land unknown to prose or rhyme ; 

Where words ne'er crost the muse's heckles, 

Nor limpet in poetic shackles ; 

A land that prose did never view it, 

Except when drunk he stacher't thro' it; 

Here, ambush'd by the chimla cheek, 

Hid in an atmosphere of reek, 

I hear a wheel thrum i' the neuk, 

I hear it — for in vain I leuk. — 

The red peat gleams, a fiery kernel, 

Enhusked by a fog infernal : 

Here, for my wonted rhyming raptures, 

1 sit and count my sins by chapters ; 

For life and spunk like ither Christians, 

I'm dwindled down to mere existence, 

Wi' nae converse but Gallowa' bodies, 

Wi' nae kend face but Jenny Geddes.* 

Jenny, my Pegasean pride ! 

Dowie she saunters down Nithside, 

And ay a westlin leuk she throws, 

While tears hap o'er her auld brown nose ! 

Was it for this, wi' canny care. 

Thou bure the Bard through many a shire "^ 

At howes or hillocks never stumbled, 

And late or early never grumbled ? — 

O, had I power like inclination, 

I'd heeze thee up a constellation, 

To canter with the Sagitarre, 

Or loup the ecHptic like a bar ; 

Or turn the pole like any arrow ; 

Or, when auld Phebus bids good-morrow 

Down the zodiac urge the race, 

And cast dirt on his godship's face ; 

For I could lay my bread and kail 

He'd ne'er cast saut upo' thy tail. — 

Wi' a' this care and a' this grief. 

And sma', sma' prospect of relief. 

And nought but peat reek i' my head, 

How can I write what ye can read 1 — 

Tarbolton, twenty-fourth o' June, 

Ye'll find me in a better tune ; 

But till we meet and weet our whistle, 

Tak this excuse for nae epistle. 

* His mare. 



ADDITIO:\"AL POEMS. 



TO JOHN M'MURDO, ESQ. 

O, coHLT) I give thee India's wealtli 

As I this trifle send ! 
Because thy joy in both would be 

To share them with a friend. 

But golden sands did never grace 

The Heliconian stream ; 
Then take what gold could never buy- 

An honest Bard's esteem. 



EPISTLE 

TO ROBERT GRAHAM, Esa. 

OF f*ST:rat : 

ON THE CLOSE OF THE DISPUTED ELECTION BETWEEN 

SIR JAMES JOHNSTON AND CAPTAIN MILLER, FOR 

THE DUMFRIES DISTRICT OF BOROUGHS. 



FiNTHAT, my stay in worldly strife, 
Friend o' my muse, friend o' my life, 

Are ye as idle's I am 1 
Come then, wi' uncouth, kintra fleg. 
O'er Pegasus I'll fling my leg. 

And ye shall see me try him. 

I'll sing the zeal Drumlanrig bears 
Who left the all-important cares 

Of princes and their darlings ; 
And, bent on winning borough towns. 
Came shaking hands wi' wabster lowns, 

And kissing barefit carlins. 

Combustion thro' our boroughs rode 
Whistling his roaring pack abroad 

Of mad unmuzzled lions ; 
As Queensberry buff and blue unfurled, 
And Westerha' and Hopeton hurled 

To every Whig deiiance. 

But cautious Queensberry left the war, 
Th' unmanner'd dust might soil his star ; 

Besides, he hated bleeding : 
But left behind him heroes bright, 
Heroes m Ctesarean fight. 

Or Ciceronian pleading. 

! for a throat like huge Mons-meg, 
To muster o'er each ardent Whig 

Beneath Drumlanrig's banner; 
Heroes and heroines commix, 
All in the field of politics. 

To win immortal honout 

M'Murdo and his lovely spouse, 

(Th' enamour'd laurels kiss her brows !) 

Led on the loves and graces : 
She won each gaping burgess' heart, 
While he, all-conquering, play'd his part 

Among their wives and lasses. 



Craigdarroch led a light-arm'd corps. 
Tropes, metaphors and figures pour. 

Like Hecla streaming thunder : 
Glenriddel, skill'd in rusty coins. 
Blew up each Tory's dark designs. 

And bar'd the treason under. 

In either wing two champions fought, 
Redoubtfd Staig* who set at naught 
The wildest savage Tory : 
And Welsh,"!" who ne'er yet flinch'd hu 

ground, 
High-wav'd his magnum-bonum round 
With Cyclopeian fury. 

Miller brought up th' artillery ranks. 
The many-pounders of the Banks, 

Resistless desolation ! 
While Maxwelton, that baron bold, 
'Mid Lawson'st port entrench'd his hold, 
And threaten'd worse damnation 

To these what Tory hosts oppos'd. 
With these what Tory warriors clos'd, 

Surpasses my descriving : 
Squadrons extended long and large. 
With furious speed rush to the charge, 

Like raging devils driving. 

What verse can sing, what prose narrate. 
The butcher deeds of bloody fate 

Amid this mighty tulzie ! 
Grim Horror girn'd — pale Terror roar'd, 
As Murther at his thrapple shor'd. 

And hell mix'd in the brulzie. 

As highland craigs by thunder cleft. 
When hght'nings fire the stormy lift. 

Hurl down with crashing rattle : 
As flames among a hundred woods ; 
As headlong foam a hundred floods, 

Such is the rage of battle ! 

The stubborn Tories dare to die ; 
As soon the rooted oaks would fly 

Before th' approaching fellers : 
The Whigs come on like Ocean's roar, 
When all his wintry billows pour 

Against the Buchan Bullers. 

Lo, from the shades of Death's deep night, 
Departed Whigs enjoy the fight, 

And think on former daring : 
The muffled murthererU of Charles 
The Magna Charta flag unfurls. 

All deadly gules it's bearing. 

Nor wanting ghosts of Tory fame. 
Bold Scrimgeour§ follows gallant Graham,^ 
Auld Covenanters shiver. 



* Provost Staii? of Dumfries. 

t Sheriff Welsh. 

j Lawson, a wine merchant in Dumfries. 

I The executioner of Charles I. was masked. 

§ Scrimgeour, Lord Dundee. 

TT Graham, Marquis of Montrose. 



8 



ADDITIONAL POEMS. 



(Forgive, forgive, much wrong'd Montrose ! 
Now death and hell engulph thy foes. 
Thou liv'st on high for ever !) 

Still o'er the field the combat burns, 
The Tories, Whigs, give way by turns ; 

But Fate the word has spoken : 
For woman's wit, and strength o' man, 
Alas ! can do but what they can ' 

The Tory ranks are broken. 

O that my een were flowing burns, 
My voice a lioness that mourns 

Her darling cubs' undoing ! 
That I might greet, that I might cry, 
While Tories fall, while Tories fly. 

And furious Whigs pursuing ! 

What Whig but melts for good Sir James 1 
Dear to his country by the names 

Friend, patron, benefactor ! • 
Not Pulteney's wealth can Pulteney save ! 
And Hopeton falls, the generous brave ! 

And Stewart* bold as Hector. 

Thou, Pitt, shalt rue this overthrow ; 
And Thurlow growl a curse of woe ; 

And Melville melt in wailing ! 
How Fox and Sheridan rejoice ! 
And Burke shall sing, O Prince, arise, 

Thy power is all-prevaiUng ! 

For your poor friend, the Bard, afar 
He only hears and sees the war, 

A cool spectator purely : 
So, when the storm the forest rends, 
The robin in the hedge descends, 

And sober chirps securely. 



ADDRESS OF BEELZEBUB 

TO THE PRESIDENT OF THE HIGH- 
LAND SOCIETY. 



Long life, my Lord, an' health be yours, 
Unskaith'd by hunger'd Highland boors ; 
Lord grant nae duddie desperate beggar, 
Wi' dirk, claymore, or rusty trigger, 
May twin auld Scotland o' a life 
She likes — as lambkins like a knife. 

Faith, you and A s were right 

To keep the Highland hounds in sight. 
I doubt na' ! they wad bid nae better 
Than let them ance out owre the water ; 
Then up amang thae lakes and seas 
They'll mak' what rules and laws they 

please ; 
Some daring Hancock, or a Franklin, 
May set their Highland bluid a ranklin' ; 



Some Washington again may head them, 
Or some Montgomery fearless lead them, 
Till God knows what may be etiected 
When by such heads and hearts directed — 
Poor dunghill sons of dirt and mire 
May to Patrician rights aspire ! 
Nae sage North, nor sager Sackville, 
To watch and premier o'er the pack vile, 
An' whare will ye get Howes and Clinton.^ 
To bring them to a right repentance, 
To cowe the rebel generation, 
An' save the honour o' the nation 1 

They an' be d d ! what right hae they 

To meat or sleep, or light o' day 1 
Far less to riches, pow'r, or freedom. 
But what your lordship likes to gie them 1 

But hear, my lord ! Glengarry, hear ! 
Your hand's owre light on them, I fear ; 
Your factors, grieves, trustees, and bailies, 
I canna' say but they do gaylies; 
They lay aside a' tender mercies. 
An' tirl the hallions to the birses ; 
Yet while they're only poind't and herriet, 
They'll keep their stubborn Highland spirit 
But smash them ! crash them a' to spails ! 
An' rot the dyvors i' the jails ! 
The young dogs, swinge them to the labour 
Let wark an' hunger mak' them sober ! 
The hizzies, if they're aughtlins fawsont. 
Let them in Drury-lane be lesson'd ! 
An' if the wives an' dirty brats 
E'en thigger at your doors an' yetts 
Flaffan wi' duds an' grey wi' beas', 
Frightin' away your deucks an' geese, 
Get out a horsewhip or a jowler. 
The langest thong, the fiercest growler, 
An gar the tattered gypsies pack 
Wi' a' their Iiastarts on their back ! 
Go on, my Lord ! I lang to meet you. 
An' in my house at hame to greet you ; 
Wi' common lords ye shanna mingle. 
The benmost neuk beside the ingle. 
At my right ban' assigned your seat 
"I'ween Herod's hip and Polycrate,— 
Or if you on your station tarrow, 
Between Almagro and Pizarro, 
A seat, I'm sure ye're weel deservin't ; 
An' till ye come — Your humble servant, 
Beelzebub. 
June 1st, Anno Mundi, 5790. 



* Stewart of Hillside. 



TO JOHN TAYLOR. 

With Pegasus upon a day, 

Apollo weary flying, 
Through frosty hills the journey lay 

On foot the way was plying. 

Poor slip-shod giddy Pegasus 

Was but a sorry walker ; 
To Vulcan then Apollo goes, 

To get a frosty calker. 



ADDITIONAL POEMS, 



9 



Obliging Vulcan fell to work, 
Threw by his coat and bonnet, 

And did Sol's business in a crack ; 
Sol paid him with a sonnet. 

Ye Vulcan's sons of Wanlockhead, 

Pity my sad disaster ; 
My Pegasus is poorly shod — 

I'll pay you like my master. 



ON 

SEEING MISS FONTENELLE 

IN A FAVOURITE CHARACTER. 



Sweet naivete of feature, 
Simple, wild, enchanting elf, 

Not to thee, but thanks to nature, 
Thou art acting but thyself. 

Wert thou awkward, stiff, affected, 
Spurning nature, torturing art ; 

Loves and graces all rejected. 
Then indeed thou'd'st act a part. 



THE BOOK-WORMS. 

THROtTGH and through the inspired leaves, 
Ye maggots make your windings ; 

But, oh ! respect his lordship's taste, 
And spare his golden bindings. 



THE REPROOF. 

Rash mortal, and slanderous Poet, thy name 
Shall no longer appear in the records of 

fame ; 
Dost not know that old Mansfield, who writes 

like the Bible, 
Says the more 'tis a truth. Sir, the more 'tis 

a libel ? 



THE REPLY 

Like Esop's lion. Bums' says, sore I feel 
All others scorn — but damn that ass's heel. 



THE KIRK OF LAMINGTON. 

As cauld a wind as ever blew, 
A caulder kirk, and in't but few; 
As cauld a minister's e'er spak, 
Ye'se a' be het ere I come back. 
2 



THE LEAGUE AND COVENANT. 

The Solemn League and Covenant 

Cost Scotland blood — cost Scotland tears: 

But it sealed freedom's sacred cause-^ 
If tbou'rt a slave, indulge thy sneers. 



INSCRIPTION ON A GOBLET. 

There's death in the cup — sae beware ! 

Nay, more — there is danger in touching ; 
But wha can avoid the fell snare ? 

The man and the wine sae bewitching ! 



THE TOAD-EATER. 

What of earls with whom you have supt. 
And of dukes that you dined with yes- 
treen ? 

Lord ! a louse. Sir, is still but a louse. 
Though it crawl on the curls of a queen. 



THE SELKIRK GRACE. 

Some hae meat and canna eat, 
And some wad eat that want it. 

But we hae meat and we can eat, 
And sae the Lord be thaiaket. 



ON THE POET'S DADGHTEE, 

Here lies a rose, a budding rose, 

Blasted before its bloom ; 
Whose innocence did sweets disclose 

Beyond that flower's perfume. 

To those who for her loss are griev'd. 
This consolation's given — 

She's from a world of woe reliev'd, 
And blooms a rose in heaven. 



THE SONS OF OLD KILLIE. 



Tune—" Shavmboy." 



I. 

Ye sons of old Killie, assembled by Willie, 

To follow the noble vocation ; 
Your thrifty old mother has scarce euch 
another 

To sit in that honoured station 



10 



ADDITIONAL POEMS. 



I've little to say, but only to pray, 

As praying's the ton of your fasliion ; 

A prayer from the muse you well may ex- 
cuse, 
'Tis seldom her favourite passion. 

n. 

Ye powers who preside o'er the wind and 
the tide, 

Who marked each element's border ; 
Who formed this frame with beneficent aim, 

Whose sovereign statute is order ; 
Within this dear mansion may wayward 
contention 

Or withered envy ne'er enter ; 
May secresy round be the mystical bound, . 

And brotherly love be the centre. 



ON A SUICIDE. 

Eakth'd up here lies an imp o' hell. 
Planted by Satan's dibble — 

Poor silly wretch, he's damn'd himscl' 
To save the Lord the trouble. 



THE JOYFUL WIDOWER. 



Tune — " Maggy Lanier y 



I. 



I MAiiRiED with a scolding wife 

The fourteenth of November; 
She made me weary of my life, 

By one unruly member. 
Long did I bear the heavy yoke. 

And many griefs attended ; 
But, to my comfort be it spoke. 

Now, now her life is ended. 

II. 

We liv'd full one-and-twenty years 

A man and wife together ; 
At length from me her course she steer'd, 

And gone I know not whither : 
Would I could guess, I do profess, 

I speak, and do not flatter. 
Of all the women in the world, 

I never could come at her. 

in. 

Her body is bestowed well, 

A handsome grave does hide her ; 

But sure her soul is not in hell. 
The deil would ne'er abide her. 



I rather think she is aloft. 

And imitating thunder ; 
For why, — methinks I hear her voice 

Tearing the clouds asunder. 



THERE WAS A LASS. 



Tune — " Duncan Davison." 



L 

There was a lass, they ca'd her Meg, 

And she held o'er the moors to spin ; 
There was a lad that follow'd her, 

They ca'd him Duncan Davison. 
The moor was driegh, and Meg was skiegh, 

Her favour Duncan could na win ; 
For wi' the roke she wad him knock, 

And ay she shook the temper-pin. 

n. 

As o'er the moor they lightly foor, 

A burn was clear, a glen was green. 
Upon the banks they eas'd their shanks, 

And ay she set the wheel between : 
But Duncan swore a haly aith. 

That Meg should be a bride the morn. 
Then Meg took up her spinnin' graith, 

And flang them a' out o'er the burn. 

in. 

We'll big a house — a wee, wee house. 

And we will live like king and queen, 
Sae blythe and merry we will be 

When ye set by the wheel at e'en. 
A man may drink and no be drunk ; 

A man may fight and no be slain ; 
A man may kiss a bonnie lass. 

And ay be welcome back again. 



THENIEL MENZIE'S BONNIE 
MARY. 



Tune—" The Ruffian's Rant." 



Ix coming by the brig o' Dye, 

At Darlet we a blink did tarry ; 
As day was dawin in the sky, 

We drank a health to bonnie Mary. 
Theniel Menzie's bonnie Mary, 

Theniel Menzie's bonnie Mary ; 
Charlie Gregor tint his plaidie, 
Kissin' Theniel's bonnie Mary. 



ADDITIONAL POEMS. 



II 



n. 

Her een eae bright, her brow sae white, 
Her haffet locks as brown's a berry ; 

And ay, they dimpl't wi' a smile, 
The rosy cheeks o' bonnic Mary. 

III. 

We lap and danced the lee lang day, 

Till piper lads were wae and weary ; 
But Charlie gat the spring to pay. 
For kissin' Theniel's bonnie Mary. 
Theniel Menzie's bonnie Mary, 

Theniel Menzie's bonnie Mary ; 
Charlie Gregor tint his plaidie, 
Kissin' Theniel's bonuie Mary. 



FRAE THE FRIENDS AND LAND 
I LOVE. 



Air--" Carron Sidc.^' 



I, 

Fhae the friends and land I love 

Driv'n by fortune's felly spite, 
Frae my best belov'd I rove, 

Never mair to taste delight ; 
Never mair maun hope to find 

Ease frae toil, relief frae care ; 
When remembrance wracks the mind, 

Pleasures but unveil despair. 

n. 

Brightest climes shall mirk appear, 

Desert ilka blooming shore, 
Till the fates, nae mair severe. 

Friendship, love, and peace restore ; 
Till Revenge, wi' laurell'd head. 

Bring our banish'd hame again; 
And ilk loyal bonnie lad 

Cross the seas and win his ain. 



WEARY FA' YOU, DUNCAN GRAY. 



Tune — " Dimcan Gray" 



Weary fa' you, Duncan Gray — 

Ha, ha, the girdin o't ! 
Wae gae by you, Duncan Gray — 

Ha, ha, the girdin o't ! 
When a' the lave gae to their play 
Then I maun sit thee lee lang day, 
And jog the cradle wi' my tae, 

And a' for the girdin o't. 



II. 

Bonnie was the Lammas moon-—"' 

Ha, ha, the girdin o't ! 
Glowrin' a' the hills aboon — 

Ha, ha, the girdin o't ! 
The girdin brak, the beast came down, 
I tint my curch, and baith my shoon ; 
Ah ! Duncan, ye'ra an unco loon — 

Wae on tha bad girdin o't ! 

III. 

But, Duncan, gin ye'll keep your aith— 

Ha, ha, the girdin o't ! 
Ise bless you wi' my hindmost breath-— 

Ha, ha, the girdin o't! 
Duncan, gin ye'll keep your aith. 
The beast again can bear us baith, 
And auld Mess John will mend the skaith, 

And clout the bad girdin o't. 



THE BLUDE RED ROSE AT YULE 
MAY BLAW. 



Tune—" To dauntonme." 



I. 

The blude red rose at Yule may blaw, 
The simmer lilies bloom in snaw. 
The frost may freeze the deepest sea ; 
But an auld man shall never daunton me. 
To daunton me, and me so young, 
Wi' his fause heart and flatt'ring tongue 
That is the thing you ne'er shall see ; 
For an auld man shall never daunton ma 

II. 

For a' his meal and a' his maut. 
For a' his fresh beef and his saut, 
For a' his gold and white monie, 
An auld man shall never daunton me. 

III. 

His gear may buy him kye and yowes. 
His gear may buy him glens and knowes , 
But me he shall not buy nor fee, 
For an auld man shall never daunton me. 

IV. 

He hirples twa fauld as he dow, 

Wi' his teethless gab and his auld held pow, 

And the rain rains down frae his red bieer'd 
ee — 

That auld man shall never daunton me. 
To daunton me, and me sae young, 
Wi' his fause heart and flatt'ring tongue, 
That is the thing you ne'er shall see; 
For an auld man shall never daunton me 



li 



ADDITIONAL POEMS. 



THE PLOUGHMAN. 



Tune—" Up wV the Ploughman." 



I. 

The ploughman he's a bonnie lad, 

His mind is ever true, jo ; 
His garters knit below his knee, 
His bonnet it is blue, jo. 

Then up wi' my ploughman lad, 

And hey my merry ploughman ! 
Of a' the trades that I do ken. 
Commend me to the ploughman. 

H. 

My ploughman he comes hame at e'en, 

He's aften wat and weary; 
Cast off the wat, put on the dry, 

And gae to bed, my dearie ! 

HI. 

I will wash my ploughman's hose. 

And I will dress his o'erlay ; 
I will mak my ploughman's bed. 

And cheer him late and early. 

IV. 

I hae been east, I hae been west, 
I hae been at Saint Johnston ; 

The bonniest sight that e'er I saw 
Was the ploughman laddie dancin'. 



Snaw-white stockins on his legs, 

And siller buckles glancin' ; 
A gude blue bonnet on his head — 

And 0, but he was handsome ! j 

VL 

Commend me to the barn-yard. 

And the corn-mou, man ; 
I never gat my coggie fou, 
Till I met wi' the ploughman. 
Up wi' my ploughman lad, 

And hey my merry ploughman ! 
Of a' the trades that I do ken. 
Commend me to the ploughman. 



RATTLIN', ROARIN' WILLIE. 



Tune—" Rattlin\ Roarin' ffillie.' 



I, 

O KATTLix', roarin' Willie, 
O, he held to the fair, 

A.n' for to sell his fiddle. 
An' buy some other ware ; 



But parting wi' his fiddle, 
The saut tear blin't his ee , 

And rattlin', roarin' Willie, 
Ye're welcome hame to me ! 

n. 

O Willie, come sell your fiddle, 

sell your fiddle sae fine ; 

Willie, come sell your fiddle. 
And buy a pint o' wine ! 

If I should sell my fiddle, 

The vvarl' would think I was mad 

For mony a rantin' day 
My fiddle and I hae had. 

III. 

As I cam by Crochallan, 

1 cannily keekit ben — 
Rattlin', roarin' Willie 

Was sitting at yon board en' ; 
Sitting at yon board en', 

And amang guid companie ; 
Rattlin' roarin' Willie, 

Ye're welcome hame to me ! 



AS I WAS A- WANDERING. 



Tune — " Rinn Mcudial mo Mieallad/i." 



I. 

As I was a-wand'ring ae midsummer e'enin', 
The pipers and youngsters were making 
their game ; 
Amang them I spied my faithless fause lover. 
Which bled a' the wounds o' my dolour 
again. 
Weel since he has left me, may pleasure gae 
wi' him ; 
I may be distress'd, but I winna complain ; 
I flatter my fancy I may get anither. 

My heart it shall never be broken for ane. 

II. 

I couldna get sleeping till dawin for greetin'. 

The tears trickled down like the hail and 

the rain : 

Had I na got greetin', my heart wad a 

broken, 

For, oh ! love forsaken's a tormenting pain. 

in. 

Although he has left me for greed o' the 
siller, 

I dinna envy him the gains he can win ; 
I rather wad bear a' the lade o' my sorrow 

Than ever hae acted sae faithless to him 
Weel, since he has left me, may pleasure gae 
wi' him, 

I may be distress'd, but I winna complain ; 
I flatter my fancy I may get anither. 

My heart it sh&ll never be broken for ane . 



ADDITIONAL POEMS. 
MY HARRY WAS A GALLANT GAY. WHEN ROSY MAY. 



13 



Tunc — '* Hiehlander's Lamait,'' 



I. 
Mt Harry was a gallant gay, 

Fu' stately strode he on the plain: 
But now he's banish'd far away, 

I'll never see him back again. 

for him back again ! 
O for him back again ! 

1 wad gic a' Knockhaspie's land, 

For Highland Harry back again. 

IL 
When a' the lave gac to their bed, 

I wander dowie up the glen ; 
I set me down and greet my fill, 

And ay I wish him back again. 

IIL 
were some villains hangit liigh, 

And ilka body had their ain ! 
Then I might see the joyfu' sight. 

My Highland Harry back again. 

for him back again ! 

O for him back again ! 

1 wad gie a' Knockhaspie's land 

For Highland Harry back again. 



SIMMER'S A PLEASANT TIME. 



Tune — " Tlie Oardc/nerwC his paidle," 



"Tune — " ^ waukin o\ 



I. 

Simmer's a pleasant time, 
Flow'rs of ev'ry colour ; 
The water rins o'er the heugh, 
And I long for my true lover. 
Ay waukin 0, 

Waukin still and wcarie : 
Sleep I can get nane 

For thinking on my dearie. 

IL 
When I sleep I dream, 

When I wauk I'm eerie ; 
Sleep I can get nane 

For thinking on my dearie 

HI. 
Lanely night comes on, 

A' the lave are sleeping ; 
I think on my bonnic lad 

And I biccr my een with greetin'. 
Ay waukin 0, 

Waukin still and wearie : 
Sleep I can get nane 

For thinking on my dearie. 



When rosy May comes in wi' flowers, 
To deck her gay green-spreading bowers. 
Then busy, busy are his hours — 

The gard'ner wi' his paidle. 
The crystal waters gently fa' ; 
The merry birds are lovers a' ; 
The scented breezes round him blaw-- 

The gard'ner wi' his paidle. 

IL 

When purple morning starts the hare 

To steal upon her early fare. 

Then thro' the dews he maun repair — 

The gard'ner wi' his j)aidle. 
When day, expiring in the west. 
The curtain draws of nature's rest, 
He flies to her arms he loe's best — 

The gard'ner wi' his paidle. 



LADY MARY ANN, 



Tune — "Craigtown's erowins" 



L 

0, Latit Mary Ann 

Looks o'er the castle wa', 
She saw three bonnie boys 

Playing at the ba' ; 
The youngest he was 

The flower amang them a', 
My bonnie laddie's young, 

But he's growin' yet. 

IL 

O father ! O father ! 

An' ye think it fit. 
We'll send him a year 

To the college yet : 
We'll sew a green ribbon 

Round about his hat. 
And that will let them ken 

He's to marry yet. 

IIL 

Lady Mary Ann 

Was a flower i' the dew, 
Sweet was its smell. 

And bonnie was its hue; 
And the langer it blossom'd, 

The sweeter it grew ; 
For the lily in the bud 

Will be bonnier yet. 



ADDITIONAL POEMS. 



IV. 

Young Charlie Cochran 

Was the sprout of an aik ; 
Bonnie and bloomin' 

And straught was its make ; 
The sun took delight 

To shine for its sake, 
Aud it will be the brag 

O' the forest yet. 



The simmer is gane 

When the leaves they were green, 
And the days are awa 

That we hae seen ; 
But far better days 

I trust will come again, 
For my bonnie laddie's young, 

But he's growin' yet. 



MY LOVE SHE'S BUT A LASSIE 
YET. 



Tune — "Lady Bailinscoth's Reel." 



I. 

Mt love she's but a lassie yet. 

My love she's but a lassie yet ; 
We'll let her stand a year or twa, 

She'll no be half sae saucy yet. 
I rue the day I sought her, O, 

I rue the day I sought her, ; 
Wha gets her needs na say she's woo'd. 

But he may say he's bought her, I 

II. 

Come, draw a drap o' the best o't yet. 

Come, draw a drap o' the best o't yet ; 
Gae seek for pleasure where ye will. 

But here I never miss'd it yet. 
We're a' dry wi' drinking o't. 

We're a' dry wi' drinking o't ; 
The minister kiss'd the fiddler's wife. 

An' could na preach for thinkin' o't. 



SENSIBILITY HOW CHARMING. 



11. 
Hear the woodlark charm the forest, 

Telling o'er his little joys : 
Hapless bird ! a prey the surest 

To each pirate of the skies. 
Dearly bought the hidden treasure, 

Finer feelings can bestow : 
Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure, 

Thrill the deepest notes of woe. 



OUT OVER THE FORTH. 



Tune — " Charlie Gordon's welcome hame.' 



Tune — "Comwallis's Lament for Colonel Muirhead.' 



Sensibility how charming. 

Dearest Nancy ! thou can'st tell. 
But distress with horrors arming, 

Thou hast also known too well. 
Fairest flower, behold the lily. 

Blooming in the sunny ray — 
Let the blast sweep o'er the valley, 

See it prostrate on the clay. 



I. 

Out ever me Forth I look to the north. 
But whai IS the north and its Highlands 
to me ] 

The south nor the east gie ease to my breast. 
The lar ioreign land, or the wild rolling sea. 

H. 

But I look to the west, when I gae to rest, 
That happy my dreams and my slumbers 
may be ; 

For far in the west lives he I lo'e best. 
The lad that is dear to my babie and me. 



THE TITHER MORN. 



To a Highland Air, 



The tither morn, 

When I forlorn, 
Aneath an aik sat moaning, 

I did na trow, 

I'd see my Jo, 
Beside me, gain the gloaming. 

But he sae trig. 

Lap o'er the rig, 
And dawtingly did cheer me. 

When I, what reck, 

Did least expec', 
Tc Hi, rny lad so near me. 

II. 

His bonnet he, 

A thought ajee, 
Cock'd sprush when first he clasp'd me 

And I, I wat, 

Wi' fainness grat, 
WIi.e in his grips he press'd me. 

Deil tak' the war ! 

I late and air, 
Hae wish'd since Jock departed ; 

But now as glad 

I'm wi' my lad. 
As short syne broken-hearted. 



ADDITIONAL POEMS. 



IB 



IIT. 

Fu' aft at e'en 

Wi' dancing keen, 
When a' were blythe and merry, 

I car'd na by, 

Sac sad was I 
In absence o' my dearie. 

But, praise be blest, 

My mind's at rest, 
I'm happy wi' my Johnny : 

At kirk and foir, 

I'se ay be there. 
And be as canty's ony. 



THE CARDIN' O'T. 



Tune — " Salt-Jish and dumplings." 



I CO FT a stane o' haslock woo', 

To make a wat to Johnny o't ; 
For Johnny is my only jo, 
I lo'e him best of ony yet. 

The cardin o't, the spinnin' o't. 

The warpin o't, the winnin' o't ; 
When ilka ell cost me a groat, 
The tailor staw the lynin o't. 

II. 

For though his locks be lyart gray. 

And tho' his brow be beld aboon ; 
V^t I hae seen him on a day, 
The pride of a' the parishen. 

The cardin o't, the spinnin' o't, 

The warpin' o't, the winnin' o't ; 
When ilka ell cost me a groat, 
The tailor staw the Ivnin o't. 



THE WEARY FUND 0' TOW 



Tune — " T7ie weary Fund o' Tow.' 



The weary pund, the weary pund, 

The weary pund o' tow ; 
I think my wife will end her life 

Before she spin her tow. 
I bought my wife a stane o' lint 

As gude PS e'er did grow; 
And a' that !:he has made o' that, 

Is ae f 3Cf pund o' tow. 

n. 

TLei^ f A a bottle in a bole, 

Bfe-"? ..t the ingle low, 
Ar d p'f she took the tither souk, 

To drouk the stowrie tow. 



III. 

Quoth I, for shame, ye dirty dame. 

Gae spin your tap o' tow ! 
She took the rock, and wi' a knock 

She brak it o'er my pow. 

IV. 

At last her feet — I sang to see't^ 
Gaed foremost o'er the knowe ; 
And or I wad anither jad, 
I'll wallop in a tow. 

The weary pund, the weary pund 

The weary pund o' tow ! 
I think my wife will end her life 
Before she spin her tow. 



SAE FAR AWA. 



Tune — " Dalkeith Maiden Bridge." 



O, SAD and heavy should I part, 

But for her sake sae far awa ; 
Unknowing what my way may thwart 

My native land sae far awa. 
Thou that of a' things Maker art. 

That form'd this fair sae far awa, 
Gie body strength, then I'll ne'er start 

At this my way sae far awa. 

How true is love to pure desert, 

So love to her, sae far awa : 
And nocht can heal my bosom's smart, 

While, oh ! she is sae far awa. 
Nane other love, nane other dart, 

I feel but her's, sae far awa ; 
But fairer never touch'd a heart 

Than her's, the fair sae far awa. 



SUCH A PARCEL OF ROGUES IN 
A NATION. 



Tune — " A parcel of rogues in a nation.' 



Faukweel to a' the Scottish famt, 
Fareweel our ancient glory, 

Fareweel even to the Scottish name, 
Sae fam'd in martial story. 

Now Sark rins o'er the Solway sands, 
And Tweed rins to the ocean. 

To mark where England's province stands- 
Such a parcel of rogues in a nation. 



10 



ADDITIONAL POEMS. 



II. 

What force or guile could not subdue, 

Thro' many warlike ages, 
Is wrought now by a coward few, 

For hireling traitors' wages. 
The English steel we could disdain. 

Secure in valour's station ; 
But English gold has been our bane — 

Such a parcel of rogues in a nation. 

III. 

O would, or I had seen the day 
That treason thus could fell us. 

My auld gray head had lien in clay, 
Wi' Bruce and loyal Wallace ! 

But pith and power, till my last hour, 
I'll mak' this declaration ; 

We're bought and sold for English gold- 
Such a parcel of rogues in a nation. 



HERE'S HIS HEALTH IN WATER 



Tune — " The Job of Journey-work.'^ 



A LTHo' my back be at the wa', 

And tho' he be the fautor ; 
Altho' my back be at the wa'. 

Yet, here's his health in water ! 
! wae gae by his wanton sides, 

Sae brawlie he could flatter ; 
Till for his sake I'm slighted sair, 

And dree the kintra clatter. 
But tho' my back be at the wa'. 

And tho' he be the fautor ; 
But tho' my back be at the wa'. 

Yet, here's his health in water ! 



THE LASS OF ECCLEFECHAN. 



TuDe -" Jacky Latin.' 



I. 

Gat ye me, gat ye me, 

gat ya me wi' naething ? 
Rock and reel, and spinnin' wheel, 

A mickle quarter basin. 
Bye attour, my gutcher has 

A hich house and a laigh ane, 
A' for bye, my bonnie sel'. 

The toss of Ecclefechan. 

H. 

haud your tongue now, Luckie Lainj 
O haud your tongue and jauner ; 

1 held the gate till you I met, 

Syne I began tr wander : 



I tint my whistle aud my sang 
I tint my peace and pleasure ; 

But your green graff, now, Luckie Lauig 
Wad airt me to my treasure. 



THE HIGHLAND LADDIE. 



'i une — ij thou It play me fair play.' 



The bonniest lad that e'er I saw, 

Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie, 
Wore a plaid, and was fu' Iraw, 

Bonnie Highland laddie. 
On his head a bonnet blue, 

Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie ; 
His royal heart was firm and true, 

Bonnie Highland laddie. 



IL 



Trumpets sound, and cannons roar, 

Bonnie lassie, Lowland lassie ; 
And a' the hills wi' echo roar, 

Bonnie Lowland lassie. 
Glory, honour, now invite, 

Bonnie lassie, Lowland lassie. 
For freedom and my king to fight, 

Bonnie Lowland lassie. 

III. 

The sun a backward course shall take, 

Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie, 
Ere aught thy manly courage shake, 

Bonnie Highland laddie. 
Go, for yourself procure renown, 

Bonnie laddie. Highland laddie ; 
And for your lawful king, his crown, 

Bonnie Highland laddie. 



HERE'S TO THY HEALTH. MY 
BONNIE LASS. 



Tune — "Lasgan Bum. 



Here's to thy health, my bonnie lass, 
Gude night, and joy be wi' thee ; 

I'll come nae mair to thy bower-door, 
To tell thee that I lo'e thee. 

dinna think, my pretty pink, 
But I can live without thee : 

1 vow and swear I dinna care 

How lang ye look about ye. 



ADDITIONAL POEMS. 



17 



n. 

Thou rt ay sae free informing me 

Thou hast nae mind to marry ; 
I'll be as free informing thee 

Nae time hae I to tarry. 
I ken thy friends try ilka means, 

Frae wedlock to delay thee ; 
Depending on some higher chance^ 

Bui fortune may betray thee. 

III. 

f ken they scorn thy low estate, 

But that does never grieve me ; 
But I'm as free as any he, 

Sma' siller will relieve me. 
I count my health my greatest wealth, 

Sae ong as I'll enjoy it : 
I'll fear nae scant, I'll bode nae want. 

As lang's I get employment. 

IV. 

But far off fowls hae feathers fair. 

And ay until ye try them ; 
Tho' they seem fair, still have a care, 

They may prove waur than I am. 
But at twal at night, when the moon shines 
bright, 

My dear, I'll come and see thee ; 
For the man that lo'es his mistress weel 

Nae travel makes him weary. 



ADDRESS TO A YOUNG LADY. 

Heue, where the Scottish muse immortal 
lives. 
In sacred strains and tuneful numbers 
joined, 
Accept the gift ; tho' humble he who gives. 
Rich is the tribute of the grateful mind. 

So may no ruffian feeling in thy breast 
Discordant jar thy bosom-chords among ; 

But peace attune thy gentle soul to rest, 
Or love ecstatic wake his seraph song : 

Or pity's notes, in luxury of tears, 
As modest want the tale of woe reveals ; 

While conscious virtue all the strain endears, 
And heaven-bom piety her sanction seals. 



SONG. 



With " Mary, when shall we return, 

Sic pleasure to renew 1 
Quoth Mary, " Love, I like the bum, 

And ay shall follow you." 



O LAY THY LOOP IN MINE, LAS'd 



Tune — " Cordwainer' s March.' 



I. 

LAY thy loof in mine, lass. 

In mine, lass, in mine, lass ; 

And swear on thy white hand, lass, 

That thou wilt be my ain. 
A slave to love's unbounded sway, 
He aft has wrought me meikle wae ; 
But now he is my deadly fae, 

Unless thou be my ain. 

IL 

There's raonie a lass has broke my rest, 
That for a blink I hae lo'ed best ; 
But thou art queen within my breast. 
For ever to remain. 

O lay thy loof in mine, lass. 
In mine, lass, in mine, lass ; 
And swear on thy white hand, lass. 
And thou wilt be my ain. 



As down the bum they took their way, 
And through the flowery dale ; 

His cheek to hers he aft did lay. 
And love was ay the tale. 



TO CHLORIS. 

'Tis Friendship's pledge, my young, fair 
friend, 

Nor thou the gift refuse. 
Nor with unwilling ear attend 

The moralizing muse. 

Since thou, in all thy youth and charms, 

Must bid the world adieu, 
(A world 'gainst peace in constant arms). 

To join the friendly few. 

Since, thy gay morn of life o'ercast. 
Chill came the tempest's lower ; 

(And ne'er misfortune's eastern blast 
Did nip a fairer flower). 

Since life's gay scenes must charm no more, 

Still much is left behind ; 
Still nobler wealth hast thou in store^ 

The comforts of the mind ! 

Thine is the self-approving glow 

On conscious honour's part ; 
And — dearest gift of heaven below— 

Thine friendship's truest heai^ 



18 



ADDITIONAL POEMS. 



The joys refined of sense and taste, 
With every Muse to rove : 

And doubly were the poet blest, 
These joys could he improve. 



PEG-A-RAMSEY. 



Tune — "Cauld is the c'enirC blast." 



CiuiT) is the e'enin' blast 
O' Boreas o'er the pool, 



And dawnin' it is dreary 

When birks are bare at Yule. 

n. 

bitter blaws the e'enin' blast 
When bitter bites the frost. 

And in the mirk and dreary drift 
The hills and glens are lost. 

in. 

Ne'er sae murky blew the night 
That drifted o'er the hill, 

But a bonnie Peg-a-Ramsey 
Gat grist to her mill. 



TIIEEND. 



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